


Rosemary and Thyme

by cedarbranch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Fae & Fairies, Fae Martin Blackwood, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, M/M, Seelie Court, you've heard of moth jon now get ready for moth martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25563145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: When Jonathan Sims walks into the Seelie Court asking for knowledge, Martin doesn't expect the Queen to grant his request. He certainly doesn't expect her to appoint him as Jon's teacher. But what starts as an unconventional mentorship quickly grows into something more, and Martin is left to question everything he knows, including his own place in the Court.Most faeries would know better than to fall in love with a human. Martin isn't like most faeries.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 245
Kudos: 335





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh, i have been sitting on this fic for AGES. i'm so excited to finally share it!!!!! credit where credit is due - some elements of this story were inspired by the fic "the boys time can't capture" by scarredsodeep, which i read years and years ago and haven't stopped thinking about. most of it is fully original though, and BOY am i psyched to see how you all like it!
> 
> i have all nine chapters fully written, and will be updating on fridays. title is taken from [scarborough fair](https://youtu.be/-Jj4s9I-53g).
> 
> hope u enjoy!!! :D

Martin lays on his back in the tall grass of his backyard, staring up at the sunset. The dusk gleams in a dazzling display of pink and orange. Cicadas hum from the nearby woods. The air is thick, a hot, heavy blanket of humidity that tastes like summer.

His parents’ angry voices carry from inside the house. He doesn’t know what they’re fighting about. He never does. One second everything will be fine, and the next, the house erupts into shouting. That’s usually when he escapes into the backyard. If he squints at the clouds, he can almost imagine shapes within them—dragons and the heroes who slay them, princesses, faerie courts dancing in the light. 

People say the fae are always near. Maybe if Martin reaches up, he can touch them. He holds up his hands, spreading his fingers so they make a silhouette against the pink clouds.

Inside the house, his father yells something that contains Martin’s name. 

Martin drops his hands and sits up, apprehensive. He waits for a minute, but the volume of their voices doesn’t change, and the back door doesn’t smack open.

He sometimes wonders if other families are like theirs, if his classmates jump at the sound of a door slamming—but then again, he could never ask them and find out. The children his age never exchange more than a few words with him, and when they do, it feels like they’re laughing. 

Sometimes Martin blows on dandelion puffs, and wishes he’d been born in a different world.

He sighs and flops back to the ground. The clouds have changed their shape, and what had formerly looked like a dancing faerie now resembles a dumpling. Maybe if the faerie cloud came back, it could grant his wish, Martin thinks morosely. He’s heard that faeries can grant wishes.

Martin sits up again, and looks into the treeline at the edge of the yard. The trunks are shadowy, but not uninviting. He glances back over his shoulder. His mother is busy arguing—she can’t scold him for getting too close to the forest if she doesn’t notice he’s gone. He pushes himself to his feet and slowly approaches the trees.

People whisper about this forest. They warn against visiting it alone, though no one ever says why. They just exchange knowing looks that Martin doesn’t understand, and when he asks, they change the subject. 

He’s heard some things through the whispers, though, and he knows that they all hinge around the word _fae_.

Martin steps into the woods, and doesn’t look back.

He walks and walks for what feels like hours. Oddly enough, he doesn’t even think of turning around. The ground is soft beneath his feet, and the woods have a gentle hum that might be insects and might be something else entirely. Everything is clearer in here, the ridges of the tree bark more defined, the edges of stones and leaves cut more sharply. It all seems to shimmer in the dying light.

By the time he finds himself at the base of a large hill, his head is starting to hurt. His mind works slowly, as if he’s just woken up from a dream—or perhaps he’s still dreaming. Each step up the hill feels like dragging his limbs through deep water. He keeps going. He has to keep going. 

As soon as he comes to the crest of the hill, the weight lifts.

Beneath the branches of a massive tree, a beautiful woman waits for him.

“Hello,” says Martin. His voice echoes strangely in his ears. 

“Hello, young one,” she says. A crown of sticks and branches adorns her head. Martin can’t tear his eyes away from it. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. It’s intricate, mesmerizing, and unmistakably fae. 

“What brings you to my Court?” the woman asks.

“I heard you can grant wishes,” he says.

The woman laughs. “Not wishes,” she says. “But… favors, perhaps. If an appropriate favor is given in return.”

“What would I have to do?” Martin murmurs. His heart beats a sluggish rhythm in his chest. Each passing moment rolls rich over his senses before moving on to the next, eternities passing between his breaths. And yet, the sun is still setting.

“That depends on what you want,” says the woman.

Martin looks in the eyes, and the truth falls from his lips like dewdrops. “I want a home,” he whispers. 

She smiles, her eyes glittering. “That much can be arranged,” she says. “What is your Name, young one?”

Martin gives it to her willingly.

“Kneel,” she says, and Martin knows instinctively that she is his Queen. He kneels and bows his head. She draws a sword from thin air, a long, delicate blade of glistening iron, with gnarled branches wrapped around the hilt, and touches it to his shoulders, once on each side.

“Rise, Martin fae-child, Knight of the Seelie Court,” she says. And Martin does. 

It is only then that his life truly begins.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: "eithne" is pronounced EN-ya.

There is a man in Martin’s woods.

Martin feels it the second the man crosses over the border between the village and the forest. His presence is a weight at the edge of Martin’s awareness, a tangible otherness, shifting the balance of the landscape with every step he takes. Martin cracks one eye open. The wood is as peaceful as ever, emerald green and teeming with life as small creatures scurry through the trees. Birds sing sweetly from the highest branches. 

But there is one presence that does not belong. 

Martin can’t see the man, but he can still sense him, feel the ripples sent through the air as he moves about. Martin ought to go and watch over him. It wouldn’t do to have a human running around unsupervised. The people of the village don’t often come into the wood—they’ve heard the stories, they know better. If this man has chosen to come in, he’s either very uneducated, or very foolish. 

Martin pushes himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his legs. He wanders toward the forest’s edge, feeling out for the rustling leaves and snapping twigs that mark the human’s footsteps. He throws on a glamour as he goes. Sunlight and speckled leaves wrap around him, blanketing him in a layer of magic only the Sighted know how to detect. Martin is certain that this man cannot be Sighted. He would know not to step so boldly into the forest if he were.

It doesn’t take long to spot him. 

The stranger is tall, with a bag slung over his shoulders and dark hair tied back into a messy ponytail. He carries a book in his hand, constantly looking up and down from the pages to the trees around him. He hasn’t made it far past the boundary, but he’s already walking in circles, seemingly unaware that each turn brings him back to a path he’s already tread. Martin finds a low branch and pulls himself up onto it. It curves perfectly along his shoulder, and he leans back to observe the human’s next move. 

The man stops, furrowing his brow. He glances down at his book, then up again, and mutters a curse. Perhaps he’s finally realized that he’s getting nowhere. 

“Hello?” he calls out loud. “Is anyone there?”

Martin says nothing. The wood fills in for him, answering with the rush of the breeze through the treetops and the gurgle of a distant creek. 

The man sighs and lowers his book. “I’m looking for the fae,” he says. “If there’s anyone there, please show yourself.”

Martin perks up. Now, that’s a very unusual request indeed. Most people would go out of their way to avoid the fae, but then again, most people avoid the forest in its entirety. This man is not ignorant, as Martin had thought he might be, but he’s certainly a fool. The thought sends a thrill of delight through him. Just who does this odd creature think he is?

“Please,” the man says. “I… I need a favor. I would be willing to return it in kind.”

Martin drops his glamour. 

“Awfully presumptuous of you to walk into the Seelie wood demanding favors,” he says mildly. The man startles and nearly drops his book. He fumbles to keep it in his hands, and clutches it close to his chest, eyes wide.

“Hello,” he says. “I-I didn’t mean to offend. Here, hold on.” He takes off his bag and loosens the drawstring, pulling out a small glass bottle. “I brought a gift,” he says, thrusting the bottle out to Martin. “Please. Take it as a greeting, a-and an apology for intruding in your forest. I’m sorry, I haven’t done this before.”

Martin pauses. “You brought a gift?” he asks. “For me?”

The man nods. 

Martin is tempted to mess with him a little more, but the bottle is so charming, with its little cork and wax melted over the top, that he slides right down from his tree branch and zips over to grab it. It’s full of honey, and glows amber when the sun shines through it. 

“It’s from the local hives,” says the stranger. “I thought it would be… appropriate.”

It is appropriate. In fact, it’s the perfect gift for a faerie, and all gifts must be repaid. Maybe this stranger isn’t as foolish as Martin presumed. He’s handsome, too—slender as a willow branch, with deep brown skin and dark eyes.

“What did you say your name was?” asks Martin.

“I didn’t,” says the man.

Definitely not a fool, then. 

“What kind of favor are you looking for?” Martin asks. 

The man swallows hard, and Martin nearly laughs out loud. His uncertainty is thick in the air; every word he’s spoken has been cautious, like he’s waiting for Martin to take offense and open up the earth beneath him. He’s right to be wary, of course. Martin could very easily send him wandering in endless circles through the wood, or trap him within an ancient oak, or lead him to the lake where the sirens swim. He’s sure it would be amusing.

But the man has given him a gift, and besides, he’s quite pretty. 

“I’d like to know more of the world,” the man says hesitantly. “The world of the fae, specifically.”

Martin hums. “So it’s knowledge you’re after?” The man nods. Interesting. If it was something smaller, like a blessing or an enchanted trinket, Martin could do it himself, but knowledge is tricker. It can’t be given all in one go; it must be learned. And he can’t exactly hand out fae secrets willy-nilly. 

“That’s quite the favor,” Martin says. “Are you sure you’re willing to pay the price for it?”

“What is the price?” the man asks.

Martin shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. You’d need to pay a visit to the Court, and the Queen would set one for you. I could take you there, if you wanted.”

The man looks down at his book. For a minute, he is quiet.

Then he looks up. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Take me to the Queen, please.”

Martin smiles. “Follow me,” he says, and turns to lead the way.

He gives no warning before he’s off and running through the wood. His steps are quick and nimble, falling silently as he leaps across fallen logs and patches of moss. Behind him, he can hear the human hurrying to keep up, nearly tripping over the same stones and puddles Martin knew to sidestep. Martin giggles. 

“Wait!” the human calls after him. 

Martin pays him no mind. If he can’t navigate the forest, there’s no way he’ll hold up in the Queen’s presence. And if Martin makes the trees bend around him, sending him in loops so that nothing ever moves closer or farther away, well, that’s just a bit of fun. 

“Please slow down!” the human cries, an edge of panic in his voice. “I can’t—I need to—oh, hell.” His footsteps slow, bogged down by despair, and then stop completely. That’s the cue to end the game; it’s less fun when they give up. Martin relaxes the arch of the trees around him, and the human comes stumbling out, straight into a small round clearing.

He blinks, shaking away the confusion of enchantment, and looks around. The clearing is bound with a solid line of trees, so thick that nothing can be seen beyond them. The only opening is beside Martin, where branches, vines, and twisted saplings swirl into a circular gateway. It leads down a long tunnel.

The human approaches cautiously, bending his head to peer further down the tunnel. It’s no use. He’ll never be able to see the exit from here—after all, it’s not in this world. 

“So, we just… go through here?” the human questions. Martin nods and holds out his arm. The human takes it. 

Arm in arm, they go through the gate. The human has to bend his head a little to keep below the twisted-branch walls of the tunnel. It stretches out before them, endless and hypnotizing. The further they walk, the stronger the hum of magic in the air gets. Martin breathes in deeply, relishing in the way it fills him up and sings through his spirit. The human blinks dazedly. 

Martin snaps his fingers sharply in front of the human’s face, and he startles. “Best to keep your wits about you,” says Martin.

They walk for a short while longer, and then Martin feels it—a subtle shift in the air, like the world has stopped holding its breath and let go. Dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming in from the walls. “We’re here,” he says. And sure enough, the exit to the tunnel is just ahead, green grass visible through it. 

They step out, and the human lets go of Martin’s arm. 

They’re standing on the side of a hill. The grass is brilliant green and flowing in the breeze, spotted with wildflowers of every color. A sweet scent hangs on the air, like honeysuckle and lilacs. The human slowly turns to look around, entranced. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Martin asks, grinning.

“Yes,” the human breathes. “It’s amazing.”

It gives Martin a little thrum of pleasure to see him so enchanted. He clearly has good taste. The land of Faerie deserves to be appreciated, and if this human understands that, he must have a good head on his shoulders. Perhaps he does deserve a favor from the Queen. “Come on,” Martin says, and leads him up the side of the hill.

Waiting for them at the top is a colossal tree, thick enough for twenty fae to wrap their arms around, stretching its massive branches up into the sky. Congregated at its base are all the Queen’s courtiers; pixies, dryads, brownies and nymphs, every faerie creature imaginable, all gathered to serve the Queen and share in the merriment of the Court. Those with wings flit through the air, while the rest linger among the roots of the tree, talking in murmuring voices. A satyr plays a set of pan pipes, the music audible even from a distance.

As Martin leads his human companion toward the revelry, the monarch herself comes into view. 

Queen Eithne is as delicate as the first tender flower-buds of spring, her gossamer wings folded behind her back. She wears a gauzy dress spun from milkweed, airy and pale, and a crown of branches that dips to a point in the center of her forehead. All around her head, larger twists of wood stick out from the top, framing her face. Her throne is an extension of the tree itself, gnarled roots grown up and around to form the perfect seat. 

From its lofty station, she lounges over her Court, conversing warmly with a sprite that has perched on her shoulder. The human stares openly, eyes wide with fascination. 

“Welcome to the Seelie Court,” Martin murmurs. “Now, mind your manners.”

They’ve already started to attract attention. A faerie clad in moss and bark points at them, whispering to the elves beside her. A brownie is staring; when Martin makes eye contact, he quickly looks away. Martin approaches the center of the Court, discreetly motioning for the human to follow. He stops before the throne and steps down to one knee, head bowed. The human kneels down beside him. 

A hush falls over the Court. Martin can feel the Queen’s eyes on him.

“What a surprise,” she says. “It appears we have a human in our midst.” Martin allows himself to raise his head. Queen Eithne’s expression betrays nothing but a mild interest. “To what do we owe this… pleasure?” she asks. 

“He requested your audience, my Queen,” says Martin. 

Queen Eithne raises her eyebrows. “He has it. Let him speak.”

Martin looks to the human. 

The human drops his bag from his shoulder. Just as he had with Martin, he reaches inside and pulls something out. This time, it’s a small parcel wrapped in cloth. He unties the string around it, revealing a delicate assembly of fresh berries and mushrooms. “I brought you these,” he says, holding them up for the Queen’s inspection. “As a token of my admiration. I have never set foot in the fae wood until today, but I have long appreciated the beauty of your lands. It is an honor to find myself within your Court.”

A smile graces Queen Eithne’s lips. She waves her hand, and a pixie flutters down to the human. She snatches the cloth pouch from his hands and zips back up to the Queen, who takes a single berry and pops it in her mouth. She doesn’t spit it back out, so it seems that the gift is a success.

“At last, a human who values true beauty,” she says, looking much more pleased than she had a moment prior. “Is this your only reason for visiting my Court?”

“Er… No, your Majesty.” The human ducks his head again. “I have come to ask a favor of you. One that only you could grant.”

“Oh?” Queen Eithne asks. “And what is this favor?”

The human takes a deep breath. “I seek knowledge of the fae,” he says. “I wish to learn your ways, and how you interact with my world. Everything that escapes the average human’s awareness… I want to know it.”

The Queen narrows her eyes. “A great boon indeed,” she says. “What is your name, precocious one?”

The human swallows. All eyes are on him. Martin doesn’t dare move.

“My name is Jonathan Sims,” he says. “And I am willing to pay the price for knowledge.”

Queen Eithne smiles, her eyes gleaming. “I see,” she says. “You understand, of course, that any knowledge of the fae you receive must never leave your lips.”

The human—Jonathan—nods. 

“Very well.” Queen Eithne rises from her throne. Her wings unfurl and flutter behind her, carrying her down to the ground. She lands softly and touches Jonathan’s shoulder. “Stand,” she says. Jonathan pushes himself to his feet. 

“I will permit you to learn of the fae,” she says. “You will be taught by one of my own Knights, and given every piece of knowledge you could dream of. You will be the Archivist of Faerie. In return, you will owe me one favor, which I will decide at my leisure. When I call upon you to fulfill it, you will obey without question. Remember, I hold your Name—any attempts to disobey or betray me will mark your death. Do you accept this price?”

“I do,” says Jonathan. 

“Good,” says Queen Eithne, satisfied. “Then let it be done.” She surveys the Court, and her eyes land on Martin. “You,” she says. “Martin, my sworn Knight. Rise.” Martin scrambles to his feet. “Come here,” Eithne says impatiently. Martin approaches, and she lays a hand on his shoulder. “You will teach the Archivist,” she says. “From now on, he will be in your care.”

Martin fights not to let his surprise show on his face. “I would be honored, my Queen,” he says. “But… I am the guardian of Lunaris. If I am to be his teacher, who will watch over the village?”

Queen Eithne waves her hand dismissively. “Gerard can resume his old position for the time being,” she says. “He’s a fine enough guard, and besides, the Archivist will not live long. Fae-bound or no, he is only mortal. You can return to your duties when he is gone.”

Martin bows his head. “Yes, my Queen.”

“Good. Now, go and begin your lessons. There is much for our young Archivist to learn.” With a flap of her wings, Queen Eithne soars back up to her throne. Martin understands a dismissal when he sees one.

He motions for Jonathan to follow him. They retreat to the edge of the Court, just beyond earshot of the curious faeries who watch them go. Jonathan gives Martin a small smile. “So,” he says. “You’re Martin?”

“Yes. And you’re Jonathan.” Martin eyes him curiously. “You just gave your Name to the entire Court, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Jonathan. “I gave it to the Queen. The rest of you just listened.”

That’s fair enough. The Court might know how to refer to him now, the simplest word to label him, but Eithne is the sole owner of his Name. 

“You can call me Jon, if you’d like,” he says. 

Martin blinks. “Jon,” he says slowly. 

“Yes. I thought we ought to be more familiar, if you’re going to be teaching me,” says Jon. Oh. That does make sense, in a way. Martin supposes it would get uncomfortable to constantly use something so close to his true Name. _Jon_ is something separate, something less weighted. It will work, for their purposes. 

“All right,” Martin says tentatively. “You can call me… Martin, I suppose. Just Martin will do.”

Jon grins. “Fantastic,” he says. “So, where do we begin?”

***

Martin takes Jon back through the gate to the mortal world. There are many things he’ll need to learn about Faerie, but there’s more than enough fae influence in human lands to start there.

He mulls over any interesting pieces of information to share as they walk. He’s never been a teacher before; he’s not entirely sure how it works. He’ll just have to do his best to find things worth sharing with Jon. There are several faerie rings scattered about the mortal parts of the woods, and creeks where water nymphs swim. And then, of course, there are the fae creatures that reside within the village itself, like the brownies—Jon would probably be interested in those, if he’s never seen them before, but… he can’t have seen them before. 

Of course. How could Martin have forgotten?

“Jon, wait.” Martin stops walking, and Jon does the same, looking curious. “You don’t have the Sight, do you?”

“No,” says Jon. “Not unless someone gave it to me without my notice.”

Even if Jon hadn’t noticed, Martin certainly would have. No, Jon still has mortal eyes; the only reason he’d been able to see the Court in all its glory was because Martin had brought him as a guest. Anything more permanent will require a more deliberate gesture.

“I can give it to you now,” Martin decides. “Don’t move.” Jon goes still, and Martin leans up on his tip-toes to kiss Jon’s forehead.

Jon startles. His hands jump up like he’s going to push Martin away, but he just lets them hover there awkwardly for a moment before dropping them again. “Wh-what was that for?” he asks, flustered. 

“A faerie’s kiss can grant the Sight,” Martin explains, rocking back onto his heels. “It’s only temporary, of course. It’ll wear off after a few days, but renewing it should be no trouble.” 

“Right, o-of course.” Jon clears his throat and looks away from Martin. 

At once, he freezes, his eyes widening.

“Martin,” he breathes, looking all around at the surrounding trees. “Has the wood always looked like this?”

Martin grins, but doesn’t reply. He knows what it’s like to see the forest in its true form for the first time—all the dazzling colors, the glimmering traces of old enchantments, the inquisitive eyes that will sometimes blink out from between the trees. The wood is alive with magic, if you have the eyes to See it.

“Come on,” says Martin. “There’s a lot more to see than just trees.”

He shows Jon all his favorite parts of the wood. There’s the maple grove where a particularly sweet group of dryads live, and the grassy knoll inhabited by a friendly sprite. It’s not only fae that make the forest so beautiful, though; there are natural wonders as well. Martin takes Jon to see his house—which he only really sleeps in during the winter, since the tree next to it is just as good to sleep in when it’s warm—and the small waterfall that flows into the creek. He even shows Jon how to skip stones across the water.

It’s kind of exciting, showing these places to someone who has never seen them. Martin’s never had anyone to share them with before, and Jon marvels at each and every one. 

Jon seems more interested in the physical details of it all than sharing them with Martin, though. He only skips a couple of stones before he starts writing things down in his notebook, and he doesn’t even notice when Martin scrambles up the side of the waterfall to the log balanced across it. Martin hops onto it and walks across, keeping one eye on Jon. The spray rises up and splatters his bare feet with droplets. Jon still isn’t paying attention. 

At the moment, he has his back turned, looking up at the treetops. Martin tries not to be too disappointed. “How far does this forest go?” Jon asks, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. “From the village, it almost looks endless.”

“It might be,” Martin says with a shrug, taking a few more steps down the log. “It’s not bound to the same rules you’re used to. Too much magic in it. Space is… malleable.”

“I thought as much.” Jon crouches down and picks up a pebble from the creekbed.

“That one’s no good for skipping,” Martin informs him. “Too round. It’ll sink right through.”

“No, I know.” Jon rolls the stone between his fingers, examining it closely. “I was just wondering. This place isn’t part of Faerie, but it clearly has some magic to it; you said it yourself. How does that work? Are there some places that are more heavily touched than others? Or does everywhere have a bit of magic?”

Martin thinks for a minute. He reaches the end of the log and turns around, walking back the other way. “Fae magic is like the plants themselves,” he says. “It’s cultivated; it grows. There are traces of it in most places, but it’s strongest in the areas where faeries spend their time.”

“Interesting,” Jon murmurs. He tosses the pebble into the water with a _plunk_. “Is this place strongly magical, then?”

“The creek? Of course it is. There’re water nymphs and nixies all over. Plus, some of us just like to swim. You really should come up and try this, you know.”

That finally gets Jon to look up. Martin grins. “See? It’s perfect for balancing on.”

Jon frowns. “I don’t want my clothes to get wet.”

“They won’t! And if they do, we can just dry them in the sun.” Martin chooses not to point out the fact that the sun will probably set soon. “It’s super fun, you’ll see.” He jumps down from the log to the edge of the falls, hopping from one stone to the next until he’s at Jon’s side. He holds out his hand. 

Jon sighs. “Is this really necessary?”

“I’m supposed to show you all the best things about faeries. I’m your teacher now, remember?” Martin asks. “If that means I have to teach you how to have fun, then so be it!” He shakes his hand impatiently, and Jon finally takes it, pulling himself to his feet. 

Martin shows him which stones to step on, and together, they climb up to the top. Martin goes first, dancing across the log with ease. He waits at the other side for Jon. 

Jon places one foot on the log. Very carefully, he shifts his weight onto it and begins to inch his way across, holding his arms out for balance. It must be more difficult when you’re actually wearing shoes. Either that, or Jon’s just over-cautious. Martin suspects the latter. Jon keeps his eyes fixed on the log, not sparing a single glance to the rushing water below. He’s almost halfway across, and—oh.

With the way he’s walking, he’s going to step straight into the rotten bit of wood in the middle. Martin always skips over it without a second thought, but Jon—

Jon’s foot slips and crunches straight through the log, plunging into the water. He lets out a strangled yell, windmilling his arms so the rest of him doesn’t fall in. Martin cackles. Jon glares at him and yanks his foot out of the log. He stalks the rest of the way across, much less careful now that one of his shoes is already soaked.

“You knew that would happen,” he says crossly. 

Martin is still laughing. “I did not!” he says. “How would I have known?”

“I don’t know, but I’m positive that you did,” Jon grumbles. He sits down on a nearby rock. The hem of one of his pant legs is sopping wet; he wrings it out, a stream of water dripping down to the ground. He pushes it up and goes for the laces of his shoe, but then he pauses and lets out a low hiss.

“What is it?” Martin asks.

“Nothing,” Jon says shortly. “I just cut myself when I fell, that’s all.” Martin leans in, and there it is—Jon’s scraped his shin, red blood slowly beginning to ooze from the cut. Martin quickly looks away, a pang of guilt shooting through him. He could’ve said something. Sure, it was funny when Jon fell, but now he’s hurt, and Martin didn’t do anything to stop it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I-I’ll fix it, hold on.”

He scurries over to the river and thrusts his hands in, cupping them to scoop up some water. He brings it over to Jon, careful not to let any leak through his fingers. Jon stiffens as he approaches. “What are you—”

“Hold still,” Martin murmurs, and pours the water over the scrape. It trickles across Jon’s leg, washing away the blood and smoothing over the cut until it’s vanished, the skin unbroken and flawless. 

Jon stares at it. 

“How did you do that?” he asks. 

Martin smiles. “It’s just like you said. The creek’s magical.”

Jon’s eyes go wide. He runs his hand over the spot where his cut has disappeared, and Martin can see the gears in his mind turning. “Does all magic have healing properties?” he asks. “Or do you have to know how to use it? Was it _you_ who did that, or was it a natural effect of—”

Martin giggles. “Slow down,” he says. “I can’t answer everything at once. And besides,” he glances up at the sky, “it’ll be sundown soon. You ought to head home. The woods aren’t as friendly at night.”

That sobers Jon up. “Right,” he says. “I suppose we’ll just… continue tomorrow, then?”

Martin nods brightly. “Of course! We have all the time in the world.” He holds out his hand to Jon. 

This time, Jon takes it right away.

***

The sun is just dipping over the horizon when Martin drops Jon at the edge of the woods. He doesn’t leave the treeline, but he watches as Jon’s back grows smaller and smaller, until he finally vanishes into the maze of cottages and winding cobblestone roads. Once he’s gone, Martin backs up into the forest and heads towards home. 

He doesn’t make it that far. 

A shape drops out of the tree in front of him with a rustle. Martin shrieks, throwing up his hands. The shape laughs. It’s a familiar sound, and as the light adjusts, Martin recognizes him.

“Gerry,” he sighs. “Don’t _do_ that, you scared me.”

“That was the point,” Gerry says with a grin. His wings flick shut, and he leans back against the tree trunk. “So,” he says. “Enjoying your first day of tutoring, I take it?” 

“Yeah. I didn’t think I’d be any good at it, but Jon—Jonathan—he asks so many questions, all I really have to do is answer.”

Gerry hums. “That sounds about right, from what I saw. I’m surprised Eithne decided to humor him. I would’ve expected her to run him out.”

Martin frowns. “Run him out? But he’s so nice.”

Gerry raises an eyebrow. “He’s a human,” he says. “That’s reason enough. But asking for fae secrets? That was… well. _Bold_ would be generous.”

“He’s just curious,” Martin says. He’s not sure why defensiveness spikes so quickly in his chest, but it’s only natural—Jon is _his_ now, by order of the Queen. It doesn’t feel right to let other faeries criticize him. 

“How do we know he’s not an Unseelie spy?” Gerry challenges. “I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before, maybe that’s why.”

“You’ve probably seen him in the village,” Martin says, waving his hand. “If he were Unseelie, the Queen would just kill him. He’s only one human, Gerry, how much harm could he do?”

“Hm.” Gerry looks unconvinced. “Well, it’s not my place to question Eithne’s judgement. That gift-giving trick was pretty cheap, though.”

“What do you mean?” Martin protests. “I thought it was sweet!”

“What good’s a gift when it’s only given because you want something in return? That’s cheap shit, if you ask me.” 

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t get one,” Martin sniffs.

“He gave you one too? That makes it even worse!” Gerry straightens up, his wings flicking in agitation. “I’d drop him in a river for that.” Martin stifles a smile. Gerry doesn’t miss it. “What?” he asks. 

“I actually did that myself,” Martin admits. Gerry’s jaw drops. “Not on purpose!” Martin says hastily. “It was an accident, he just slipped—”

Gerry bursts out laughing. “Martin! Oak and hemlock, I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Oh, shut it,” Martin says ruefully. The orange light of the dying sun streams across the trees. “I’m going back to my tree. Do you want to join me?”

Gerry shrugs. “I might as well. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this part of the wood. You’ll have to show me around, if I’m taking over your job.”

Of course. Martin had nearly forgotten—Gerry is watching over Lunaris now. He must have been here all day while Martin was busy with Jon. 

“You already know your way around,” says Martin, waving his hand dismissively. “You were guardian of this place long before I was.” He beats his wings and takes to the air. Gerry flies along behind him, the trees blurring together as they speed through the forest. When the familiar silhouette of Martin’s house rises in front of them, along with his favorite tree beside it, Martin slows and alights on a strong bough. Gerry lands beside him. 

“Nice one,” he says appreciatively, and takes a seat in the curve of the branch. 

“Thanks,” Martin says with a smile. Jon had been properly polite when Martin showed him the tree earlier, but only another faerie could really understand the value of a tree with comfortable branches. 

As he sits down, he draws out the bottle of honey that Jon had given him that morning, and a couple of apples he’s been saving in his pockets. “Here,” he says, passing one to Gerry. “We can share.”

Gerry glances at the honey bottle. “Got this from the Archivist, did you?”

Martin nods. It almost feels wrong to break the seal on the bottle—the melted wax over the cork is so pretty, he could just leave it closed and admire it forever. But the honey inside does look delicious, so Martin pops it open. Gerry has already taken out a small knife and started to slice up his apple. Martin takes a slice and dips it into the bottle. It comes out dripping golden. 

“Well?” Gerry asks.

Martin takes a bite. It’s delicious—a delicate sweetness, not too strong, with a hint of clover. It tastes fresh, too. “Wow,” he says, impressed. “That’s really good.”

“At least it wasn’t a half-assed gift, then.” Gerry sticks an apple slice of his own into the bottle. “So,” he says. “What do you think Eithne’s going to make him do?”

“Hm?” Martin asks. 

Gerry passes him the honey. “He owes her a favor. What do you think it’ll be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I doubt even she knows, at this point.”

“True.” Gerry shakes his head. “Making a deal without knowing the price. He’s going to end up regretting that, I just know it.”

Martin sighs, and doesn’t respond. From where they’re sitting, nearly the entire forest is laid out beneath them; as the sky turns dusky, the distant streetlamps of the village begin to wink on. Maybe somewhere Jon is watching those flickering lights, too. 

“I think the Queen might draw him into the Court,” he says. “It would make sense. He’s opened the door to it, and if he gains knowledge of the fae, he’d make a good Knight.”

Gerry shakes his head. “She wouldn’t. He’s too curious to become fae. Human fascination is one thing, but if a Knight were to question her, it’d be insubordination.”

“What do _you_ think will happen to him, then?” Martin asks. 

Gerry is quiet. In the falling night, his face is cloaked in shadow, his wings a barely-visible outline behind his back. 

“I think he’ll be lonely,” he says. 

Martin tightens his grip on the honey bottle. It’s a reasonable assumption. From now on, Jon will exist between two worlds, understanding both, but fully belonging to neither. Of course he might be lonely. Anyone would. 

But Martin won’t let him.

***

The next morning, when Martin goes to the edge of the forest, Jon is already waiting for him. When he lays eyes on Martin, his face lights up. 

They’ve barely finished with the pleasantries before Jon launches into a series of questions, mostly about magic, and how faeries manipulate it. Martin keeps up as best he can, but after a few hours of discussion, he has to call for a break, and they spend a few minutes resting in the shade of a wide oak. 

At first, Martin thinks Jon will get bored of learning. Eventually, he’ll get tired, and his pool of questions will run dry. He gives it a few weeks, tops, before Jon returns to his normal life. But every day like clockwork, Jon appears at the treeline armed with his notebook. Every day, he fills the pages with scribbles, and has three new questions for every one Martin answers.

Martin is beginning to think he might have underestimated Jon.

Today, they’re talking about the Unseelie. Martin has taken Jon’s notebook and quill in an attempt to sketch out a caricature of an Unseelie warrior, but the result is less than convincing. Jon wrinkles his nose as he looks it over. “This just looks like a faerie,” he says. 

“No it doesn’t!” Martin protests. He points at the outfit he’d scribbled over the figure. “See? I drew dead leaves and furs over it, that’s what they wear.”

“It still just looks like you to me,” Jon says, tilting his head to look at a different angle. 

“No, it’s not like me, it’s…” Martin sighs. “I can’t show it right in a drawing. You’d _feel_ the difference between a Seelie and an Unseelie.”

“How?”

Martin thinks for a minute. “Seelie are… lighter,” he finally says. “We feel like sunshine and grass and flowers. The Unseelie are…” He makes a face. “They don’t feel as nice. They’re cold and rotten and dead.”

“I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever run across one,” says Jon.

“You won’t,” Martin says at once. “I’ll keep them away from you.”

Jon blinks. “But wouldn’t it be interesting to learn more about—”

“No,” Martin cuts him off. “It’s too dangerous. You should try your best to keep away.” 

“Are they violent?” Jon says curiously. “I’ve always heard that they were more dangerous to humans than the Seelie, but I didn’t get the impression that they would attack unprovoked.”

“It’s not about _violence_ , really,” says Martin. “They wouldn’t attack a normal human unprovoked, no—but you’re not a normal human anymore. You chose a side.” He flips to a new page in Jon’s notebook and starts drawing out a diagram. Now is as good a time as ever to get into politics. 

“The Seelie and Unseelie Courts have always been opposed,” he says. “From spring to summer, the Seelie are in power. But when the seasons turn, we go to war. The Unseelie win control for the next season, and then the cycle continues.” He shows Jon his drawing, with arrows rotating a circle, noting the transfer of power.

Jon furrows his brow. “That makes no sense,” he says. “Why fight a battle if you already know what the ending will be?”

Martin shrugs. “Tradition.”

“Do people die?” Jon asks. 

Martin pauses. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can see the smears of silvery Unseelie blood on his hands, feel the weight of his sword hanging at his side. Battlefields smell like smoke and cut grass. That smell never really fades from your clothing, no matter how many times you wash it. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Something must have come through in his tone, because Jon gives him a strange look. “Do you fight, too?” he asks. 

Martin nods. “Every year since I was Knighted. It’s your duty, if you’re part of the Court.” Jon stares. “What?”

“Nothing. You just… didn’t strike me as the type for killing.”

Martin shifts uncomfortably. “I never said I enjoyed it.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” Jon says quietly. “I don’t think I could ever kill anything.” 

“Well, sometimes it’s necessary.” 

“Why?” Jon asks. “If you’re always slated for the same changing seasons, why do you bother slaughtering each other over it? What could possibly make that necessary?” He’s starting to sound upset, his voice rising a little.

“I don’t know! Loyalty, for one,” Martin says defensively. “We stand up for our own. We fight for each other. Some things are worth killing for.”

“If you say so,” Jon mutters. 

“It’s just what faeries do, all right?” Martin snaps. “You’re the one who wanted to learn.” Arguing with Jon feels wrong, and he knows he’ll regret speaking so sharply later on, but he can’t stand the look Jon had given him when he admitted to fighting; it brings a squirm of discomfort to his stomach. 

Jon sighs. “Fine,” he says, then, quieter: “Fine. You’re right, I’m sorry. I do want to learn. You’ll have to forgive me if some fae customs are… incomprehensible to me. Perhaps I’m not meant to understand.”

“It’s all right,” says Martin. “Maybe we should take a break. It’s about midday, we could go and find something to eat?”

As far as gestures of reconciliation go, it’s a transparent one, but it does bring a small smile to Jon’s lips. “Sure,” he says. He pulls out a pocketwatch, checks it, and stows it away again. “Do you… I mean, do you keep things here in the forest, or do we need to go back into Faerie?”

“Probably Faerie,” Martin admits. “There are proper markets there.”

Jon hesitates. “I see.” He doesn’t seem quite as enthusiastic now that Martin’s said that. Martin gets it. He does, really. Of course it could be uncomfortable to venture into a land that you’ve recently learned to associate with war. He won’t take it personally. 

“I really don’t know if I should be eating faerie food,” Jon says uneasily.

Oh. _Oh_. Right, that. “I’m sorry,” Martin says with a wince. “I had forgotten about the whole… binding-you-to-us-if-you-eat-our-food thing. For what it’s worth, though, it probably wouldn’t matter? The Queen already has your Name. That’s about as much power over you as she can possibly have.”

Jon doesn’t look at all reassured. On the contrary, he looks even more nervous, clutching his notebook tight to his chest. “Okay, forget it,” Martin says, raising his hands in surrender. “We can get food in Lunaris instead. I’ve never really been into town. I’ve already shown you my place—maybe you could show me yours?”

At that, some of the tension relaxes from Jon’s shoulders. “That sounds perfect,” he says. 

Martin leads him back toward the village. Once it’s in their line of sight, Jon stops walking. “Er, Martin?” he says. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you could do about…” He gestures to Martin’s wings. 

“Oh! Of course.” Martin’s cheeks go hot. He folds his wings tight against his back, allowing a glamour to sink over them like a blanket. It should make human eyes skip right over him, wings and all. He’ll just be another face in the crowd. 

Hopefully. He’s never actually walked into Lunaris, where there are enough humans to surround him. The Queen wouldn’t have approved—he’s not a brownie or elf, he has no business in the village—so until now, he’s stuck to observing from the sidelines. She would probably accept this little outing, though. It can be a lesson. He’ll teach Jon about brownies while they’re in town. 

With his wings disguised, Martin steps out from the trees. 

“We can go to my house,” says Jon, leading Martin across the grass towards the first few cottages. “I’ve got plenty of food—it won’t even trap you in the human world, either. Completely safe to eat.” 

“Thanks,” says Martin. 

Jon sighs. “That was a… nevermind.” They pass a cottage with a thatched roof and round windows. Martin cranes his neck to peek through the glass as they walk by, but there are no humans visible inside, just a table and some shelves. 

Once they get to the road, the village begins to take a more solid shape. The houses are arranged close together, with squat little chimneys and wildflower bushes near the doors. Martin wants to stop and admire each one, but Jon keeps a brisk pace, and Martin is forced to tag along behind him. He scans around the nearby houses, searching for anything that seems marked by the fae. There’s got to be something.

He spies it a little ways down the road. It’s an old-looking house, the whitewashed brick walls streaked with dirt and dust. The russet-red shingles of the roof are crumbling away. It’s exactly the kind of fixer-upper that would attract a brownie, and the subtle gleam of fae magic around the door is proof. Martin points to it. “See that house?” he says. “A brownie lives there. Looks like it must have moved in recently, too. Do you see the mark?”

Jon squints. “Where?”

“Look by the door. And the windows, too—you see how all the details look sharper?” The door is a rich auburn, its colors deep and luxurious despite the worn condition of the wood. It shimmers where the light catches it. By contrast, the doors of the nearby houses look dull and mundane. 

“I see it,” Jon murmurs. 

“I guarantee that house will be looking good as new within a few months,” says Martin. “Keep an eye out for marks like that, I’m sure there are more.” 

They keep walking through the streets, Martin occasionally pointing out a fae-touched house or pixie hiding in the bushes. More often than not, though, the houses are completely normal. It’s a little surprising—in a village so close to the forest, Martin would expect to see more of a fae presence—until he starts looking at the doors. Most of them have iron horseshoes hanging over them.

“Oh,” he says, trying not to let his disappointment show. 

“What is it?” Jon asks. 

“Nothing. Just… those.” Martin waves his hand at the horseshoe hanging over the door to a bakery. “Looks like we aren’t wanted here.”

Jon winces. “It can’t be helped,” he says. “Most people fear the fae.”

“Why?” Martin asks, frowning. “We aren’t cruel. We just play jokes sometimes, that’s all.” He looks to Jon, but Jon’s eyes are fixed on the road. 

“Some of you are cruel,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re almost to my place, you’ll be welcome there.”

Jon’s house is right at the end of the road. It’s made of grey and tan stone, with a thatched roof and a box of flowers in the window. A horseshoe hangs over the door, which doesn’t escape Martin’s notice, but Jon jogs ahead and grabs it, setting it aside on the stoop. He unlocks the door and steps inside, leaving it open for Martin to slip through. 

The door leads into an open room, with a few armchairs and bookshelves off to one side, and the entrance to the kitchen on the other. A staircase leading upwards is tucked away in the corner. Martin flutters over to the bookshelves. They’re absolutely overflowing with books, volumes and tomes crammed in and piled on top of one another. Martin slides one out, testing the weight of it in his hand, and flips it open. The cover page reads, _The English Fairy: A Guide to the Fair Folk of Southern England._

“Do you want to eat, or are you just going to look through my things?” Jon asks. Martin snaps the book shut.

“Sorry,” he says. Instead of putting it down, he takes it with him to the kitchen, where Jon has opened up the fridge and begun pulling out food. Martin leans over his shoulder to look. Jon grins at him. “Have you ever seen a fridge?” he asks.

“Of course I have,” Martin says scornfully. 

“Right, of course,” Jon says quickly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t assume ignorance on things like this.”

Martin winces. “No, I’m sorry. It wasn’t an inappropriate question, most of us wouldn’t have known. I just…” 

He remembers things from the life he left behind, that’s all. He remembers the fridge in his childhood home, and the way he’d try to open it up and sneak a few spoonfuls of his mother’s dou hua while it was chilling, only for her to inevitably catch him and give him a good scolding. Most of the memories are fuzzy by now, but sometimes, certain sights or turns of phrase will pull him back into a different time, when the world felt much larger and less familiar.

“Anyway,” Martin says, shaking himself back to reality. “This is lovely, don’t apologize. Oh, are those strawberries?” He pulls a container from the fridge and pops it open, inhaling deeply. 

“I was going to ask,” says Jon. “I… don’t really know what you eat? I mean, I know some things faeries are supposed to like, but I don’t think you’d want to eat an entire stick of butter for lunch.”

“Some faeries would,” Martin says, popping a whole strawberry into his mouth. Tangy juice bursts across his tongue, and he sighs happily. Jon gives him an odd look.

“Do you eat the leaves, too?” he asks.

Martin blinks. “Should I not?”

Jon just shakes his head. “Forget I asked. Do you just want fruit, then? Because I’m going to make myself something more.”

“What is there?” Martin asks. 

Jon surveys the fridge. “Well, there’s a freezer pizza, stuff for sandwiches…”

Martin reaches in and pops open a carton. Eggs. He rifles through some other containers, pausing on one full of a thick yellow-orange substance. “What’s this?”

“Leftover dal tadka,” says Jon. “Do you want to try some? It’s pretty good, it’s how my grandmother used to make it. My adoptive grandmother, I mean, not my birth one, and she was from Chennai, so,” Jon gestures vaguely, “it’s a little bit different from what I grew up—wait.” He pauses. “Do faeries even have family structures?”

“We tend not to keep track of that kind of thing,” Martin says apologetically. “The Court is everyone’s family.”

“Right. Let’s just say that it’s complicated, then,” says Jon. “But the food’s good, I promise. Do you want some?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Martin says with a shrug, and goes to take a seat at the kitchen table. Jon nods and pulls a few more ingredients out of the fridge. Martin makes a mental note of how much of Jon’s food he’s eating, so he can figure out an appropriate way to repay him later. 

He sets down Jon’s book, opening it up with one hand and using the other to pick through the carton of strawberries.

Whoever wrote the book was very respectful. Martin approves. They use glowing terms to describe the fae, documenting their noble deeds and customs with great attention to detail. Not all of the details are accurate, of course, but Martin appreciates the effort. 

After a few minutes, Jon sits down across from him and slides him a plate. On it is a thick slice of toasted white bread, with juicy red tomato slices, cheese, and basil leaves on top. Martin takes a bite, careful not to let any of the ingredients slip off. It’s fresh and earthy, the basil adding a bite to the moist, milky cheese. One of Martin’s wings flies out and smacks into the back of his chair. 

“Laurel and lavender, this is amazing!” he says, delighted. 

“You like it?” Jon says, looking relieved. “Good. I hoped so.”

Martin doesn’t respond, as he’s too busy demolishing the rest of the food. He keeps one eye on the book, devouring the words just as hungrily. He knew that humans told stories about the Fae, but he didn’t know they were like this. This is borderline reverence. Martin never would have expected it. He still can’t make sense of it. 

If humans write about faeries like this, then why do they hang horseshoes over their doors?

He flips through the pages more and more slowly.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks.

“Nothing,” Martin says absently. “Why do you ask?”

“Your wings are drooping,” Jon points out. 

Martin flushes and tucks them into his back. “It’s nothing,” he says. “I just…” He sighs and closes the book. “You said people fear the fae. But if that’s true, why don’t you?”

Jon freezes. 

“You walked right into the forest looking for us,” Martin points out. “Why would you do that? Aren’t you afraid?”

“I’d have to be a fool not to be,” Jon mutters. He takes the book from Martin.

“But you let me into your house.”

“Yes, I did.”

“So,” Martin says slowly. “Why would you do that?”

Jon gets up and returns the book to his shelf.

“You know as well as anyone that faeries are complicated,” he says. “Humans are complicated, too."


	3. Chapter 2

Jon and Martin still get odd looks whenever they go into Faerie together. It can’t be helped—it’s not every day that a human is welcomed in by the Queen. Martin still has vague memories of the looks he got when he first joined the Court. There’s no ill will behind the staring; people are just curious. 

And it’s not like Jon isn’t staring, too. 

“Stop looking at them,” Martin says under his breath. 

“They’re looking at me!” Jon protests.

“Of course they are! Don’t look _back_ , you’re just making it weird!” Martin hurries him along through the open stalls of the market. Jon’s gaze lingers on every vendor’s display, from the woven baskets of fruit to the bundles of fragrant herbs and flowers. 

“Wait, wait,” he says, nearly tripping as Martin pulls him along. “Look, that one’s selling charms! What do they do? Can we—”

“Next time,” Martin promises. “You wanted to go to the library, remember?”

Jon sighs. “I suppose,” he says, turning a wistful eye on the charmseller. 

“We’re nearly there, come on.” Martin leads him down to the end of the row, and they break out into the meadow beyond. The hillside glimmers in the sunlight. On the neighboring hills, forests stretch out as far as the eye can see. 

They’re not there to admire the view, though. There’s a dirt path worn into the grass, winding down and around all the way to the base of the hill. Martin starts down it. It’s a bit steep, so after a minute or so, he lifts off the ground, letting his wings carry him gently downwards.

“That’s cheating,” Jon huffs. 

“It’s easier,” Martin says with a shrug. 

“Things don’t always have to be easy.”

“And they don’t have to be difficult, either.” Martin twirls around, facing Jon as he flutters backwards. He holds out his hand. Jon stares at it. “Well?” Martin asks. “Don’t you want to try?”

“Try what?” Jon asks. “What—flying?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t be serious,” says Jon. “I’m too heavy, you’d drop me.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “It’s magic, Jon, that kind of thing doesn’t matter.”

Jon looks down at the ground, keeping a steady pace down the hill. He’s got to be curious, Martin knows it. He always is. He must be itching to know how it feels to float above the air. 

But he’s also criminally stubborn, and after a moment of silence, he looks up and says, “No thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine as I am.”

Martin huffs. “Fine,” he says. “Take the slow way, then.” 

He speeds away, the breeze light between his wings. Jon will catch up soon enough. It’s like he said; he’s fine. 

But still, Martin finds himself slowing down, and before he knows it, he’s come to a complete stop. He waits for Jon to scramble down to meet him, and they go the rest of the way together, Martin hovering at Jon’s side. 

“Here we are,” he says when they reach the base of the hill. There’s a huge door set into the hill, made of polished wood and covered with intricate carvings. Jon reaches out to touch it. At the first brush of his fingertips, it swings open.

The halls beneath the hill are beautiful. No one could deny that. But they’re also halls, in the most traditional sense of the word, with walls and floors and ceilings that block out the sky, so Martin isn’t too fond of them. They’re nice enough on rainy days, when the Court can retreat to a dry place and dance until the merriment fills up every last nook and cranny of the hill—but on sunny days, most faeries would rather taste the open air, and the hollow hill is abandoned.

Today is one of those days. As Martin steps inside with Jon, they’re met with utter silence. The vast entranceway is empty; the only faces to be seen are their own, looking up from the polished oak floors. Light trickles in from distant skylights, tunnels dug all the way up to the surface, so the sun can reach them even deep beneath the earth. 

“Where is everyone?” Jon whispers.

“Out,” Martin whispers back. “That’s good, I suppose. Less people to stare at us. Come on, the library’s this way.”

Off to one side, the entranceway branches off into a great hall. Martin leads Jon down it. It opens directly into the library, bookshelves stretching all the way up to the towering ceilings, lining the walls, winding into alcoves and hidden nooks. The ceiling is painted with lavish scenes of the fae—they curve along the natural shape of the hill, forming a circle around a painted version of the tree that forms Queen Eithne’s throne. The real thing sits somewhere above it, way up on the surface. Its roots creep through the ceiling and curl into the painting. 

Jon turns in a slow circle to drink it all in. He wanders over to the nearest shelf, running a hand across the pale wood. 

“We generally prefer telling stories orally, but most things find a way into writing eventually,” Martin explains. “Records of battles, contracts, festivals, that kind of thing. There’s stuff in here going back entire lines of royalty—from different rulers, before Queen Eithne. Any piece of this Court’s history that was ever written down is here.” 

“It’s an archive,” Jon murmurs. 

“Exactly.”

Jon reaches for the row of books before him, but hesitates, drawing his hand back at the last moment. “Can I just… read them?” he asks. “Any of them?”

“Yeah. There is a restricted section, I think, but everything else is fair game,” says Martin. 

Jon still doesn’t touch the books. “I don’t know where to begin,” he says, uncertain. “There’s so much.”

“We can just explore,” Martin suggests. “Pick something that jumps out at you.”

Jon nods to himself. He turns away from the bookshelf and moves deeper into the library, following the twists and turns, weaving between shelves until they’re so far in that Martin could barely say which direction they came from. He lifts off the ground, floating up to the tops of the shelves so he can look out over them and get his bearings.

They look like termite tracks beneath him, snaking in every possible direction. Martin can see how it would be overwhelming. He drifts down to the top of the shelves. There’s got to be a suitable book for Jon here somewhere—maybe the best place to start is with something familiar. Martin flies past shelves marked with runes and sloping fae script, searching for any names or words that feel right.

The books on the top few rows of shelves are covered with dust, and their faded cloth bindings are so worn they look like they might fall apart at first touch. They must have enchantments on them to keep them in one piece, but Martin passes over them anyway. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for until he sees it—a stack marked _human_ , with the name of a previous King or Queen attached. He slows down and moves in closer, taking a book and flipping it open.

It’s a written account of a human settlement—not Lunaris, but a town like it, on the other side of the woods. Martin puts it back and tries the next one, which turns out to be a record of contracts between faeries and the people of that village. A survey of the row reveals that most of the books seem to be about the same village, spanning centuries of history. Encouraged, Martin floats downwards, skimming the titles and shelf markings. 

Only a few rows below is Lunaris. Martin grabs the first book from the shelf, blows the dust off the cover, and closes his eyes. Here, he can’t feel Jon’s presence as clearly as he can out in his own forest, but it’s still there, a dot of solid sentience in the midst of the library’s airy fae magic. 

Martin follows the feeling until he spots Jon, a small outline on the ground. He swoops down and alights in front of him, presenting the book. “Here you go,” he says. “It’s the first record we have of your village.”

Jon’s eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says. “Thank—” He catches himself. “That was very thoughtful of you,” he says, and takes it, gently opening the cover. Martin bites back a sigh. He and Jon know each other now, they’re _working_ together; even if thank-yous are usually an indication of debt, Martin could let it slide. He wouldn’t hold it over Jon’s head. 

Well, maybe he would. He’s still a faerie, after all. But he wouldn’t be _cruel_ about it. 

“I just thought you might like it,” he says. 

Jon nods, already poring over the book. “How old is this?” he asks. “There’s no year marked.”

Martin shrugs. “Don’t know,” he says. “Days, months, years, it’s all the same to me.” He’s never really understood those kinds of markers. What good is knowing that a day has gone by without knowing what that day contained? The space between a sunrise and a sunset can be the most significant phase of a Court’s rule, or it can be a blip in the stream of summer, uneventful and soon forgotten. The only changes that truly matter are the seasons and the rulers.

Jon gives him an odd look. “What?” Martin asks.

Jon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pocketwatch. “Here,” he says. “You should take this. If we’re going to keep meeting every day, we should probably have a way to synchronize our senses of time.”

Martin takes the watch in both hands. It’s small and plain, with shiny nickel plating and a white face showing the time in roman numerals. “Thanks,” he says, touched. 

Jon smiles briefly. “Don’t worry about it. Now,” he holds up the book, “do you happen to know what time period this is from?”

“It’s from three Courts ago, that’s all I know,” says Martin. “At least, I think so. A new ruler can only be crowned by killing the old one, and sometimes the new one will destroy records of the old one’s rule, but.” He shrugs. “Three Courts ago is my best guess.”

Jon furrows his brow. “I see,” he says. “I don’t suppose you could find something about the royal line? I would look myself, but…” He gestures to the shelves stretching far above his head.

“I could just carry you up, you know,” Martin points out. 

Jon pauses. “Is that… would you prefer it that way?” he asks. “I don’t want to make you do things for me, I know that’s not—”

“Jon,” Martin interrupts him. “Relax. I was just asking if you wanted to see for yourself.”

“I… all right, then. I think I’ll stay on the ground.” Jon closes the book. “Is there someplace we could go to read? It feels odd just standing here.”

Martin thinks for a moment. There are places, yes, but most of them are up high—cozy alcoves tucked away where only those with wings can reach. And if Jon doesn’t want to fly… 

“Sure,” says Martin. “We can look for a place.”

They have to wander around for a while, but eventually, they do come across an old table and some chairs. Jon takes a seat and starts to read right away. Martin smiles to himself and grabs a book off the nearest shelf, something to keep him busy while Jon is engrossed in his studies. It turns out to be a truly stunning Court drama from early in Queen Eithne’s rule, complete with a rebellious nymph, two quarreling selkies, and an Unseelie flirtation. It’s absolutely not the kind of thing someone of his position should be reading.

Martin can’t get enough of it.

It’s nice to be able to lose himself in a book. The library is quiet, and it’s easy to forget the rest of the world even exists, except for the sound of Jon flipping pages beside him. Martin’s glad to have it—true silence would be unsettling, given how accustomed he is to the birdsong and rustling leaves of the forest. Sharing the quiet makes it much more pleasant.

After a while, Jon clears his throat, interrupting Martin’s reading. Martin looks up. “Can you help me find something?” Jon asks. “There’s a reference here to a particular battle—an important one, apparently? I-it seems like necessary context, I think.”

Martin reluctantly sets his own book aside. “Sure. Can I see?”

Jon points out a section of text. Martin reads over it, just enough to get a sense of the context, and flutters off toward the shelves. Anything to do with the Unseelie will be housed on the other side of the archives. He speeds up, zipping through the aisles. 

There’s a flash of movement, and he almost crashes headlong into someone. Martin swerves at the last second, beating his wings furiously to stay upright. 

“Watch where you’re going!” snaps a voice. The other faerie turns, brushing off his sleeves, and—wait.

“Gerry?” Martin asks. 

Gerry blinks. “Oh. Hey, Martin. What are you rushing around for?”

“Just looking for something,” Martin says vaguely. 

“What kind of something?”

“Just, erm, a battle record? I think. Something from Queen Rhiannon’s time.” 

Gerry raises an eyebrow. “This for your Archivist?” Martin nods. “Hm. Makes sense. Can’t imagine you reading that sort of thing on your own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gerry grins. “Don’t worry about it. Where were you planning on looking? I can give you a hand, if you want.”

Martin motions for Gerry to follow him. They find the shelves marked _Unseelie,_ and after a bit of searching, they locate the records from the correct time period. Gerry is the one who finds the right book—he tosses it to Martin, who fumbles and nearly drops it, but manages to catch it before it plummets to the ground below. The cover is of supple leather, well-preserved for its age, and Rhiannon’s name is inscribed into the side in delicate handwriting. 

“Thanks,” Martin says. “Do you need help with anything? Sorry if I interrupted… whatever you were doing.”

“Nah, I’m good. Let’s go deliver your book.” Gerry flicks his wings, and he’s off, flying back in the direction they came from. Martin blinks. He’d assumed they would part ways once the book was found. Shit, if he had known Gerry was sticking around, he might have thought to tell Jon. Something tells Martin that Jon might not enjoy having a strange new faerie sprung on him out of nowhere. 

Martin should probably go and warn him.

He speeds after Gerry and breezes right past him, returning to the table where Jon is waiting. He drops the book in front of him. “So,” he says, “There’s someone who’d like to meet you? Someone I know. I just ran into him and he helped me find your book. He’s nice, I promise, you don’t need to worry about—”

“Telling him about how I eat humans for breakfast, are we?” Gerry asks from behind Martin. Jon startles. Martin flushes, but doesn’t look back at Gerry. 

“Jon, this is Gerard,” he says. “He’s a friend.” 

“So you’re the one that’s been keeping Martin so busy,” says Gerry. He touches down to the ground and folds his wings behind his back. “How’s the Archivist gig going?”

Jon has gone very still. “It’s… interesting,” he says slowly. “I’ve been learning a lot.”

“Good. I hope it was worth the cost.” Gerry grabs the book Martin had been reading from the table and starts to leaf through it. “Can’t say I’d want to be indebted to the Queen myself, but to each his own,” he says airily. Martin snatches the book from him.

“Behave,” he says under his breath.

Gerry grins. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Martin. Wouldn’t want to offend our dear guest. I’ll leave you two to your studies, then, shall I?”

“I think that might be best,” Martin says.

“Fine.” Gerry turns to Jon. “Pleased to meet you, Archivist. I expect we’ll be seeing each other again.” He sticks out his hand. Jon takes it, and Gerry gives it a good shake. “If you ever need anything, just call on me. Oh, and Martin?” he asks, glancing back to Martin. “Meet me by your tree tonight, will you? We should talk.”

And with that, he takes flight, his wings a streak of black and yellow as he shoots off toward the exit. 

Martin sets his own book down, and hands Jon the one he’d retrieved with Gerry. “Here,” he says. Jon doesn’t move to take it. Martin’s heart sinks.

“I’m sorry about Gerry,” he blurts out. “I know he can be a little… brash, but he’s just not used to humans. Well, he is, but he’s not—I don’t know, he’s not like me. He likes to tease. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jon says, smiling briefly. “I know what faeries are like, Martin. This is what I signed up for.”

“That doesn’t mean they get to act superior about it.”

Jon shakes his head. He looks more resigned than anything else. “It’s all right,” he says quietly. “I… I’ve made my decision. And maybe he’s right, maybe it was a foolish one. But what’s done is done. I can’t take it back now.”

“Would you?” Martin asks. “If you had the choice?”

Jon exhales slowly. “That depends,” he says. 

“On what?”

Jon hesitates.

“On what I learn,” he finally says. “If I learn enough that everything finally makes sense, and I know that… that certain things won’t happen again, then it will have been worth it.”

Martin tilts his head. “What do you mean? What kinds of things?”

Jon turns away. He looks all around, as if more faeries might pop up out of thin air. Then he turns back to Martin and leans in, lowering his voice. “Can I trust you?” he asks. “I know I’m not supposed to ask that, but I need to know. Will you use it against me if I tell you?”

“Don’t know how I would,” Martin says curiously. “I’m not here to hurt you, Jon. I think we both want to learn from each other.”

Jon is quiet for a minute. “All right,” he says. “It’s… not a very special story, really. I’ve lived in Lunaris all my life. When I was a child, I was playing near the hills on the other side of town, and I found a seeing stone. Someone must have dropped it. I held it up to my eyes, and, well. I assume you know how it works.”

Martin nods. Seeing stones are the only item that can grant a human the Sight—he can’t imagine who would have been so careless as to lose one. 

“I saw flashes of magic all around me,” says Jon. “So I followed them into the woods. It was so much all at once, I got so confused, I... I dropped the stone somewhere, and I got lost. I don’t know how long I was wandering. When I came out, everything was different. I don’t know how many years had gone by, but my family was long gone.” He exhales shakily. “Most people wanted nothing to do with me, the strange boy who’d walked out of the forest. But I did find a family kind enough to adopt me.”

“You did mention that,” Martin murmurs.

“Yes. They tried, and they did a good job raising me, they did, but I was always different for one reason or another.” Jon sighs. “They told me not to speak of what I’d seen, so I didn’t, but I couldn’t forget it.” He sets his jaw. “I’ve been researching the fae ever since then. I wanted to know exactly what it was that had changed my life. I thought I could figure things out on my own, but… there are some secrets humans can’t ever know, unless given permission. So I asked.”

Martin waits, but Jon just stares down at the table, seemingly finished. 

“Faerie does strange things to time,” says Martin. He can’t remember ever seeing a child in his woods, and that’s the kind of thing he would have noticed—it must have been before his time as guardian. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Jon says. “I’m pretty sure I only escaped because I got lucky, and I don’t want any faeries to find out and decide they’re not finished playing tricks on me.”

“They won’t,” Martin says firmly. “I guard Lunaris. That means I guard you. The forest won’t swallow you again.” 

He pushes the book across the table, closer to Jon, and stands up. “I’ll go look for more books on Lunaris,” he says. “Maybe we can find something that’ll tell us more about, y’know, the things you missed. While you were lost. I’m sure the humans have filled you in, but you haven’t seen our side, have you?” 

Jon opens his mouth and closes it again. “That sounds… good,” he says. “I mean, that’s really, er…” He studies Martin for a moment, a tentative smile curling at his lips, and says, “Thank you. I mean it.”

Martin smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

***

When Martin returns to his tree, Gerry is already perched among the branches, his legs dangling off the side. Martin doesn’t sit beside him right away, instead hovering a cautious few feet away. “Hi,” he says. “You said you wanted to talk about something?”

“Yeah. Well, less talk, more tell.” Gerry inclines his head to the space next to him, gesturing for Martin to sit. Martin does. 

“So, what do you want to tell me?” he asks. 

“Not to get attached,” Gerry says. His wings open and cloze lazily. “I know it’s tempting. The Queen gives you a mortal to take care of, he’s new and exciting and charming, you think it can’t hurt to take him under your wing. To make friends with him, even. But trust me, it’s not a good idea.”

Martin bristles. “I never said I was taking him under my wing,” he says. Gerry raises an eyebrow at him. Martin tries to remain stoic, but deflates after only a few seconds. “He’s _nice_ ,” he says.

“Faeries are nice, too,” Gerry says pointedly. “The Court is your family, Martin. Don’t forget why you joined it.”

“That’s not fair,” says Martin. “I can have other people, too. Besides, Jon’s part of the Court now, too—or close enough, at least.”

Gerry looks unconvinced. “Eithne won’t like it,” he says. 

“Well, maybe she should have thought about that before giving him to me,” Martin says. 

Gerry’s face hardens. “Don’t speak ill of her,” he says. “Not for some man you’ve barely spent a single summer with.”

“You speak ill of her all the time!”

“That’s different,” Gerry snaps. “I’ve been in this Court a damn while longer than you have, and I know how things work. I know when to stop, because I know what happens when you don’t.” He holds up his wrist, laced all around with thick burn scars, the telltale mark of iron shackles. 

Martin winces. He’s heard allusions to the story, whispers among the Court about Gerry’s time locked up in the dungeons below the hill, but he’s never dared to ask what he did to provoke the Queen. He doesn’t want to. 

“Do you really want to piss her off?” Gerry challenges. 

“All right, all right, I get it,” Martin mutters. “We’re not even that good friends. Not yet, anyway. We’re just…” He doesn’t know what the right word is. They’re bound together by order of the Queen, but their relationship isn’t purely contractual. It’s not truly that of teacher and student, either. They’re not quite colleagues. They’re not quite friends. Martin doesn’t know what they are.

Until now, he’s only ever known the camaraderie of fellow Knights or the magical ties of loyalty to his Queen—this is something new. What he has with Jon, it’s special. Whether it’s due to the Queen’s decree or their own rapport, they’re a pair now. They work together, they learn together, and if he’s honest, Martin’s just as curious about Jon as Jon is about him. They might not be good friends, at least not in the sense Martin is familiar with, but they could be. 

They could be something even better. 

“I just want to help,” Gerry says. “I know it’s hard to see that now, but I swear, I’m trying to help you.” He falls silent. “Maybe I came too late for that,” he says after a while. 

“It’s okay,” says Martin. He’s not stupid—he knows that getting too close to anyone outside the Court is a foolish idea, that it could make the Queen question his loyalty. He could lose everything he’s built since he joined her service. And beyond that… she has his Name. If she wanted, she could take everything he is. Martin shivers.

“Just make sure it’s worth it,” Gerry says quietly.

Martin can’t say if it is. But if he knows himself at all, he knows that this won’t change anything.

***

Jon lays back in the thick grasses of the clearing, his book open on his chest. He hasn’t turned the page in a few minutes. His last question came about ten minutes ago—Martin’s been keeping track, and he can see the next one brewing.

“How long have the Seelie and Unseelie Courts been fighting?” he asks, right on schedule. 

Martin shrugs. “As long as we’ve existed, probably.”

“And how long is that?” 

“I actually don’t know,” Martin admits. “I’ve never asked.”

Jon perks up the same way he always does when they come across a question that’s not easily answerable. “We should try to find out,” he says. “I mean, you go off and risk your life to fight them every year, you should at least know how it all started. Is there anyone who might know?”

“Probably not,” says Martin. “There are some really old faeries, but not _that_ old. If there’s any information about it, it’ll be in the library.”

“Could we look?” Jon asks eagerly.

Martin winces. “Stuff that old… it’d probably be in the restricted section. We’d have to get permission from the Queen, and if she knew you were trying to learn about the Unseelie… well, she might not like it. She’s touchy about that kind of thing.”

“Hm.” Jon purses his lips. He looks down at his book, flips a couple of pages, and asks, “Could we sneak in?”

“Jon!” 

“What? Nobody’s ever in the library, it wouldn’t be difficult!” Jon sits up, grinning. “We could do it together. It might be fun.”

Martin doesn’t even know where to start arguing with that. It’s a horrible idea. If they were caught, the Queen would be furious, and that would put them both in serious danger. It’s not worth it. 

But for some inexplicable reason, the hopeful look on Jon’s face is making Martin consider it. Maybe if they found some kind of invisibility spell, and checked in advance to make sure there was no security magic in that section of the library, they could—wait, no, what the hell is he thinking?

“We can’t,” Martin says firmly. “You can get branded for that kind of thing, I’m not risking it.”

“Branded?” Jon asks.

“They make you touch iron,” says Martin. “It’s one of the Queen’s favorite punishments.”

“Oh, God,” says Jon, looking horrified. “But iron—”

“Burns us, yes.”

“Not just that! Doesn’t it sort of,” Jon lowers his voice, “you know, bleed the magic out of you?” 

Martin nods. “Only if you touch it for too long or let it cut too deep, but yes. You can see why I don’t really want to risk that.”

“Right, of course,” jon says immediately. “I’m sorry, Martin, I wouldn’t make you do anything dangerous.” 

“No, it’s okay,” says Martin. “I know you just want to learn. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“No! It’s fine, really, it’s—” Jon clears his throat and looks away, closing his book. “I’m perfectly happy just spending time with you,” he says. “Studying, that is.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asks, biting his lip. “I could always try to find something—”

“Please don’t,” says Jon. “We can drop the entire thing.”

“But it’s good for you to learn this stuff, right?” Martin points out. “That’s the entire reason you’re here.”

Jon starts to speak, but cuts himself off, looking at Martin for a long moment. Something unreadable passes through his expression. 

“Right?” Martin prompts.

Jon shakes his head a bit, as if to clear away some nagging thought. “Yes,” he says. “I-I suppose it is, yes. But don’t put yourself in danger for me. My studies shouldn’t come before your safety.”

“It’s okay," Martin assures him. "I’m not _that_ fragile—I’m a Knight, remember?” 

Jon half-smiles. He turns his attention back to his book, but he’s still smiling to himself, like there’s a joke Martin isn’t in on. “What?” Martin asks. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Jon says airily.

“What is it?” 

“Nothing! I just… I still can’t imagine you fighting, is all.”

Martin huffs. “And why is that?”

Jon looks bemused. “Well… look at you.” Martin looks down. He’s wearing his usual flax tunic, light brown and loose-fitting, with slits for his wings to poke through the back. He knows that he’s not the most _threatening,_ with his soft black hair and round face, but he’d like to think that enemy Knights wouldn’t look at him and wonder why he’s fighting.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend,” Jon says quickly. 

Martin almost tells him to stop apologizing—he doesn’t need to worry about offending Martin, damn it, they’re well past the usual faerie code of conduct by now—but an opportunity jumps out at him, and he grins. “You don’t think I can fight?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Okay. I have a new idea for a lesson, then.”

Jon slowly closes his book. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret everything I’ve just said?”

“You’ll regret making fun of me, that’s for sure!” Martin giggles and jumps to his feet. “Wait here, I’ll be back.”

He flits into the woods beyond the clearing, searching around for the largest sticks he can find. He manages to get his hands on two strong ones, long enough to wave around, and solid enough to take a few hits. He brings them back to the clearing and tosses one to the ground next to Jon. “There,” he says. 

Jon picks it up. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” he says, dismayed.

“That’s your sword.” Martin swings his own into a playful ready stance. “Come on, I’m supposed to be teaching you useful things! This is useful!”

“I’m not a Knight!” Jon protests. 

“But you never know when you’re going to have to defend yourself!” Martin jabs him in the stomach with his stick. Jon yelps and curls into himself. “See?” 

“You’re not going to let me get out of this, are you?” Jon asks, holding up his stick like a shield. 

Martin taps his against it. “Nope,” he says. As fun as it’s going to be to prove Jon wrong for underestimating him, it’s actually a helpful lesson. It’ll give him more insight into faerie battles. 

Jon stands up, brandishing his stick. “Fine,” he says. “Teach me.”

Martin laughs. “Okay, first of all, you’re holding it wrong.” He goes over to Jon’s side and tilts his stick forward. “Don’t angle it so high up. You’ll strain your wrist if you have to reach out too far, and it’ll make your movements too stiff.”

Jon gives the stick an experimental swing. “Better,” Martin says. “But you want to grip it like this.” He places his hand over Jon’s. It does something funny to his chest, like the sudden weightlessness of taking flight. He shoves the feeling aside, focusing instead on adjusting Jon’s grip to be looser, his hand fitting around the stick as it would in a handshake.

“Try again,” he directs. Jon gives it another swing. “Good!”

Martin backs away, twirling his stick around his hand. “Now,” he says. “Try and hit me.”

Jon blinks. “What?”

“Try and hit me!” Martin encourages. “Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Jon says apprehensively.

Martin laughs. “Changed your mind awfully quickly for someone who was just saying I didn’t look like a fighter.”

“You’re going to hold this over my head forever, aren’t you,” Jon mutters. “I should have known.” He’s barely finished speaking when he makes a sudden jab at Martin. Martin parries with ease.

“Oh, come on, Jon,” he says, affronted. “I’m not _that_ easily distracted.”

“You told me to try to hit you! I tried!”

Martin just grins. They circle around each other, the morning sun beating down. Martin ducks in, knocks Jon’s sword to the side, and pokes him in the chest. “Got you,” he says, before retreating back again. Jon rolls his eyes. The next time Martin tries it, he smacks back at Martin’s stick, but he still gets poked. 

“Don’t look at my eyes,” Martin instructs. “If you try to follow where I’m looking you’ll just get faked out. Look at my chest instead, that way you can follow my actual movements.” Jon looks down obediently. This time when Martin takes a swing at him, he manages to clumsily block it. 

They do the dance until Jon gets more comfortable with a weapon in his hands, his motions more fluid and instinctive. His form is terrible—Knights aren’t made in a day—but he’s a quick learner. By the time the sun has crawled over to the other side of the sky, he’s able to parry most of Martin’s strikes, and even attempt a few of his own. 

Their sticks collide with a _crack_ that echoes through the clearing. “Don’t hold on too tight, let your grip adjust with the movement,” says Martin. 

“I thought I was,” Jon says petulantly, but he shifts his grip anyway, and takes the chance to strike at Martin’s legs. Martin dances out of range. Jon lunges after him. He feints to the left, and Martin throws up his stick just in time to catch the jab when it comes. Jon doesn’t let up. Their sticks press together at an angle, and Jon keeps driving forward until they’re barely a foot apart, Martin pushing back hard to keep his stick from slipping. 

Jon’s eyes are narrowed with concentration. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a joke or try to create a distraction. He just takes a step forward, then another, forcing Martin back in increments. His ponytail is coming loose, and loose strands of hair frame his face. His dark eyes are focused directly on Martin’s, made rich and warm by the glow of the afternoon sun. Martin’s heart skips a beat.

His stick is starting to slip in his sweaty hands. 

Without thinking, he beats his wings and shoots upwards, back far enough that Jon can’t reach. 

“Hey!” Jon says indignantly. “That’s cheating!”

“If you’re going to learn how faeries fight, you might as well see how they really fight!” Martin says, with a smile that he hopes isn’t as shaky as it feels. Jon just rolls his eyes, so he figures he’s pulled it off. 

They keep training until the sky is streaked with pink and orange, and Jon’s forehead shines with sweat. Martin finally takes pity on him. They store their sticks in the trunk of a hollow tree, where they’ll be able to find them again, and Martin drops Jon at the edge of the forest the way he always does. 

“Good night!” he calls after Jon as he retreats to the village. Jon smiles over his shoulder and waves. Martin grins from ear to ear.

As soon as Jon has vanished, the smile fades away. 

What the hell was _that_? He’s a Seelie Knight, for crying out loud. He doesn’t let untrained humans corner him. He shouldn’t have had to use his wings to get out of that. It was a sloppy move, but he hadn’t been able to think straight; with Jon fixing that intense look on him, it was hard to even breathe, much less think about strategy. 

Martin is better than this, he tells himself firmly. He does not get distracted by his opponents. 

Even when their eyes are that beautiful.

***

Combat training becomes a regular part of Jon and Martin’s lessons. It’s a nice way to break up the monotony of reading, and when they get tired, they can collapse into the shade and find something new to talk about. There’s always something new. 

“How long has it been since you came to the Court?” Martin asks, looking up at the sky. “In human time, I mean.” The clouds are thick and brilliant white, their puffy shapes drifting aimlessly across the blue. 

“Do you really not know?” Jon asks, amused. “I gave you that watch for a reason.”

“That only shows hours and minutes,” Martin whines. “Come on, you already know I’m no good with time. It’s all useless anyway.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because. It feels like it’s been forever, and you’re still coming up with things to ask me about.” Martin rolls over to face Jon. “I didn’t stop to think about half this stuff when I became a Knight, and you haven’t even joined the Court.”

Jon ducks his head. “It’s interesting,” he mumbles. 

Shit. Martin came to the Court for a different reason than Jon did; of course he’s going to be curious about different things. “Sorry,” Martin says quickly. “You’ve got your reasons, I understand that. I’m just saying it’s kind of impressive, is all.”

“No, it’s not… it’s not _all_ because of what happened to me,” Jon says. He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back so it falls in waves over his shoulders. Martin could reach out and tuck a strand behind his ear, if he wanted. It looks soft. Maybe Jon would let him braid it. But Jon is still talking, and Martin should really be paying more attention.

“You live in an entirely different world,” Jon says. “I guess you don’t notice how different it is, but I do. It’s everywhere.”

“I notice _most_ things,” Martin corrects. “I’m not completely ignorant about humans.” 

“You say that, but I’m still not convinced you knew what a car was until I told you,” Jon says with a grin. 

“I knew about cars!” Martin protests. “I was guardian of Lunaris for ages!” And he _was_ a human, once. He might not remember much, but he knows the basics, whether it’s machinery, or the easy way they exchange names and thank-yous. 

He knows more specific things, too. What it’s like to sleep in a house instead of the open air, and wake up in a body without wings. The irrational, childish fear of what might lurk behind a closet door, and the songs his mother would sing to make him forget it. The inside of a classroom. The menthol smell of Tiger Balm. The physical ache when raised voices came from downstairs, or when every other human seemed to have better friends to spend time with. 

Being human—or staying human, at least—seems like such an awfully lonely experience. Martin doesn’t know how they bear it. 

“I just haven’t had much personal contact with humans, that’s all,” he says quietly. “It’s not usually allowed.”

Jon sits up on his elbows. “What do you mean, it’s not allowed?” he questions. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“ _You_ got special permission,” says Martin. 

“What about the brownies that live in town? Or the faeries that drop by? I know there are some, I’ve seen them.”

“That’s…” Martin chooses his words carefully. “I wouldn’t call that personal contact,” he says. “They’re not in it to learn anything. They just like causing trouble. That’s pretty much expected from a faerie, but if someone goes and starts getting too close to humans, it just looks… odd. Like they’re not loyal to their roots.”

Jon sits up fully, furrowing his brow. “What?” Martin asks. Jon doesn’t say anything. “It’s fine, Jon. What is it?”

“Are we friends?” Jon asks abruptly. 

Martin feels like he’s stepped off the wrong branch and fallen into the air. His head reels. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, fumbling for the right words. “Do you think we are?” he asks. 

“I don’t know.” Jon plucks a long strand of grass from the ground and picks it apart with his fingers in quick, sharp motions. “I—I’d like to think that we are. You seem different from the others. I…” He breathes in deeply. “I trust you,” he admits. “I suppose I do think of you as a friend. It’s just hard to know if I should.”

A thrill goes up Martin’s spine. “You should!” he says. “I—I mean, yes, I do think we’re friends. I’m glad you trust me. I trust you, too.”

“Would you be in trouble if the Queen knew that?” Jon asks softly. 

Martin winces. “Maybe,” he says. _Probably,_ he doesn’t say. 

“Does she disapprove of… of all relations with humans, then?” Jon asks. He goes to work on a second blade of grass, stripping it apart intently. 

“What do you mean?” Martin asks. 

Jon doesn’t look at him. “You say she doesn’t like people getting too close. Does that just apply to friendships, o-or… I assume that faeries don’t often…” Martin holds his breath. “I’m assuming that romantic relationships are frowned upon,” Jon mumbles.

“Oh, yeah,” Martin says. For some reason, he’s finding it hard to breathe. “Erm. I don’t know much about it, I don’t think people try it very often. Who knows? Maybe not, maybe it’d be fine.”

“This is all hypothetical, of course,” Jon says quickly. “Just—from the perspective of cultural exchange and all, I was wondering—”

“Yeah, of course—”

“It did strike me as something that might come up on occasion, given the proximity to the village—”

“Yeah, no, I totally understand!”

“Right.” 

Silence falls. Martin can’t bring himself to look at Jon. It feels like if he does, the air between them will shatter to pieces. He tries to work up the courage to speak, but every time he tells himself he’ll say something, the words die in his throat, and he’s paralyzed again. 

“What _do_ faeries usually do?” Jon asks, so quietly that Martin might have missed it if he wasn’t paying such close attention.

“Do for what?” Martin whispers.

“For… that sort of thing. You know. Relationships.”

Martin’s cheeks grow hot. “Oh,” he says. “I guess it really depends on the faerie? Not all of us do romance. Some just don’t care about the whole thing, some are only in it for… you know, the physical side of things. But sometimes you get faeries who fall in love.”

“And what do they do?” Jon asks.

Martin smiles in spite of himself. “Are you asking how we court each other?”

“I… suppose, yes.”

“Well, I can’t speak from personal experience, but I’ve seen it a few times. They barely leave each other’s side. There’s a lot of gifting and touching and affection. They’re obsessed with each other, it’s like they forget everything else exists.” Martin makes a face. “It can actually get kind of annoying, actually. But at least it doesn’t last long. I haven’t ever seen a romance that lasts more than one summer.”

“Not ever?” Jon says incredulously. Martin shakes his head. “That’s… I know I can’t understand what it’s like to be a faerie, but that really doesn’t sound like love, Martin.”

Martin tilts his head. “What’s human love like, then?”

“It’s not an obsession, first of all,” Jon says. “It can seem like it, sometimes, but it’s not just about being obsessed with your partner. It’s about… being your best selves together, and lifting each other up. You have to really trust someone, to _know_ them, and let them know you, too.”

Martin frowns. “That just sounds like friendship.”

“Well, there’s more to it than that part,” says Jon. “It’s a feeling, too. Not just infatuation, mind you, but a feeling like…” He swallows, looking at the ground. “Like you could spend every day with someone and never get bored. Like you want to share all the beautiful things in the world with them, and help them through the terrible ones. You just want them to be happy, whatever that takes.”

“Isn’t that… tiring?” Martin says tentatively. “All that effort?”

Jon shakes his head. “That’s the thing, it isn’t. You know you’re in love when it comes without hesitation.”

Martin shivers. Faeries don’t do that sort of thing—there are ties of loyalty to the Queen, who could outright force you to defend her with your life, and there are close friendships, but fundamentally, they’re a self-serving people. Friendships are built more around sharing good times than weathering bad ones. A faerie’s love is not selfless.

That’s never bothered Martin, of course. He’s always been given everything he needs. But he has to admit, the feelings that Jon’s describing… they do sound nice. 

“Have you ever been in love?” Martin asks. 

Jon hesitates. “I think so,” he says.

“And how did it end?”

“I… don’t know if I can answer that question.”

“Why not?” Martin asks curiously. 

Jon sighs. “Human feelings are complicated,” he says, with a trace of bitterness, if Martin’s not mistaken.

“It sounds like it,” says Martin. “It still sounds lovely, though. I think… I think it’d be nice, to feel that way about someone.”

“You do?” Jon asks. 

“Yeah. It’s different, but who knows? It could be a good different.” Martin’s never really been interested in courting other faeries, anyway. There are certainly handsome Knights, and some of the wood nymphs are rather cute, too, but Martin’s never had the nerve to initiate anything, and no one’s ever bothered to approach him. He’s not exactly the type who gets invited to the Queen’s parties, or chosen as a date for the midsummer dances.

The largest of them all is fast approaching—the Solstice festival, where the Court gathers and celebrates from dawn to dusk. It’s Martin’s favorite of all the festivals. He usually goes with his friends, and they all get drunk on the strength of the fae magic radiating through the long daylight hours. Jon is his friend now, too. He should really see it—it’s one of the highlights of the year. If he’s learning about fae culture, he can’t afford to miss out. 

Martin sits bolt upright. “Jon!” he exclaims, grabbing onto Jon’s arm. Jon startles. “I’ve just had the best idea!”

“What is it?” Jon asks.

“You should come to the Solstice festival!” Martin says excitedly. “It’s coming up soon, the entire Court will be there! It’s the most powerful day of the year for us, so we all get up at dawn and there’s feasts and music and dancing, and then once the sun sets, the Queen throws a big party for everyone.” 

“Oh!” A smile creeps its way onto Jon’s face. “All right,” he says. “I-I suppose that could be a good lesson, yes.”

“Yeah!” Martin says. Then, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “It doesn’t have to be a lesson, though. We could just go and have fun.”

“We?” Jon asks. “Just… just you and me?”

Martin’s face flares with heat once more. He can feel it all the way to the points of his ears. “I guess so, yeah,” he says. “Would—would you want that? I could always introduce you to some of my friends while we’re there, I think Tim and Sasha would really like you—” 

“No, it’s okay,” Jon says quickly. “I-I mean, if you’d like me to meet them, I’d be happy to, but I’m fine if it’s just us.”

“Great!” says Martin. He beams at Jon. It feels like he should reach out and touch him—take his hand, or tuck his hair back, something like that. He _has_ to. He can’t stop himself. He grabs Jon’s hand and yanks him to his feet, giggling at Jon’s yelp of surprise.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve still got work to do! You’ll have to brush up on your skills if you want to be consorting with Knights.” He picks up both of their sticks and tosses one to Jon. Jon catches it in one hand.

“The Solstice festival doesn’t involve mortal combat, does it?” he asks nervously.

“Nope! But there’s lots of dancing, and they’re almost the same thing.” Martin does a twirl, and lands with his stick in a ready position.

“May I have this dance?” Jon quips. 

Martin just grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is so much fun hoohooHOO i'm excited for next week
> 
> in the meantime, you can keep up with me on [tumblr](https://spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) if you want!


	4. Chapter 3

The Solstice creeps up in the blink of an eye. One second Martin is spending his days chatting with Jon and watching the clouds, and the next he’s watching all of Faerie abuzz with activity in in preparation for the festival—hunting for the most mouthwatering foods, decorating all around with wreaths of wildflowers, spinning delicate gowns from spider silk. He gets roped into some of the duties himself. Between all the running around and scrambling to carry out orders from the Queen, he has to put lessons with Jon on hold, and there are a few gloomy days where they don’t see each other at all.

And then it’s the Solstice.

Martin stands over the still waters of the creek, turning at different angles to check his reflection. He’s wearing his fanciest outfit—a flowy green shirt with sleeves that reach his elbows, and a deep brown tunic layered over it. The golden embroidery around the edges gleams in the sunlight. He unfurls his wings and gives them an experimental flutter. 

He doesn’t usually care this much about his appearance, but if he is to be Jon’s introduction to the world of faerie soirees, he should at least look presentable.

Martin flaps his wings and takes off. The sky is covered in a blanket of thin, pearlescent clouds, just beginning to glow in shades of pale pink and gold as the sun sets. The dance will be starting soon. The thought of it makes Martin’s heartbeat quicken, and he speeds up, flying for the edge of the forest. 

When he reaches Lunaris, Jon is already waiting for him. He waves as Martin approaches. Martin hovers down to meet him, and once he gets a glimpse of Jon up close, he nearly chokes.

Jon looks, for lack of a better word, stunning. He’s wearing a loose cream-white shirt and dark vest that hugs his torso perfectly, and his hair, usually tied up into a messy ponytail, falls over his shoulders in waves of beetle-black. He smiles nervously, adjusting his glasses. “What?” he asks. “You did say to get dressed up. Is this enough?”

“Th-that’s perfect,” Martin stammers. “Yeah! Y-you look—wow.” He can’t seem to manage anything beyond that. His brain jumbles up all the words. 

Jon glances up. “Shall we get going, then? It’ll be nightfall soon.” 

“Right! Yes, let’s go.” Martin dips into the woods, hoping Jon won’t notice his blush. 

It’s fine. He shouldn’t be so surprised at how handsome Jon looks; Jon always looks handsome. This isn’t anything different, he shouldn’t be getting so worked up about it. 

Jon catches up to him. “You look nice, too,” he offers. “Have you been celebrating all day?”

Martin nods. He doesn’t trust himself to say thank you without blushing, so he just says, “Yeah, I’ve been up since sunrise.” In truth, the day has been a blur. It’s been fun, but everything until now has felt like a mere prelude to the evening. Now that the evening is here, Martin’s nerves are shot. He can’t say _why_ , but every step toward Faerie makes him more and more jittery.

Jon is unusually quiet as they walk. Martin doesn’t want to stare, but he peeks over at Jon every few seconds before quickly looking back to the trees. Once they arrive at the clearing that marks the entrance to Faerie, Jon frowns. 

“Isn’t there supposed to be a gate here?” he asks. The gateway lies only a few feet from them, twigs and branches wrapping into a long tunnel. Jon looks around, seemingly unaware of its presence. 

“What?” Martin says, confused. “It’s right—oh.” Martin’s been so busy preparing for the Solstice, it’s been quite a few days since he’s seen Jon. He doesn’t remember the last time they renewed his Sight.

Jon seems to realize it in the same moment that Martin does. “My Sight must be wearing off,” he says. “Could you…”

Martin beckons him closer. Jon leans forward a bit, so their faces are only a few inches apart. Martin’s done this a good few times, but this time feels different, somehow. It’s like there’s an invisible force pressing back at him, keeping him from bridging the distance between them. 

He leans in—slowly, slowly—and presses his lips to Jon’s forehead, lingering for an extra moment before he pulls back, just far enough to look into Jon’s eyes. 

“Better?” he asks softly. 

Jon looks over toward the gate and nods. When he turns his head, it’s like the spell is broken, and Martin is able to back up, flushing. “Let’s go,” he says, and hurries into the tunnel. 

When they emerge into Faerie, the sun has fallen, and the hillside is cast in twilight blue. Voices and laughter can be heard, and there are fiddles and panflutes playing in the distance. At the top of the hill, the Queen’s tree is festooned with paper lanterns and strings of flowers that glow in the moonlight. 

Martin leads Jon towards the warm glow. A crackling bonfire comes into view at the crest of the hill. There are faeries dancing in a ring around it, hands entwined, laughing as they prance in circles. One of them is his friend Sasha. He’s pretty sure he spots Tim, as well. Sasha catches Martin’s eye, and she grins widely, letting go of her dance partner’s hand to wave. Martin waves back. 

“We’re right on time,” he says to Jon. “Things are just getting started.” He trots over to Sasha, Jon following in his wake.

“Martin!” Sasha says, and throws her arms around him. “Where did you go? I lost track of you in the afternoon, I thought you’d been kidnapped or something!”

Tim pops up over her shoulder, perfectly in time with a beat of the lively music. “I said you were—woah!” His jaw drops. “Rose and azalea, Martin, your human cleans up nicely!” Sasha elbows him. “What?” he protests. “It’s a compliment, don’t look at me like that!”

Jon doesn’t say anything, looking uncertain. “Don’t mind him,” Martin says under his breath, then addresses Tim and Sasha. “This is Jon, you guys. Jon, these are my friends Tim and Sasha.” Tim does a little bow. 

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” Sasha says, eyeing Jon curiously. “Are you just here to watch?”

“Pretty much,” says Martin. “I thought I’d show him what the holidays are like.” 

“They’re fantastic,” Sasha says warmly. “We’ll make sure you have a great time. Who knows? Maybe you’ll like it so much you decide to join us, hm?” She winks at Martin. “It’d be nice to have a new member of the Court, don’t you think?”

“That’s not really on the table, Sasha,” Martin mutters, before Jon can reply. He quickly guides them both away from the fire and towards an open area lit by floating lanterns, where they aren’t blocking anyone from dancing. 

Sasha stretches out her arms. She looks quite nice—some of her braids are twisted into a crown, while the rest hang straight and elegant down her back. Her dress is a bright shade of yellow that pops against the mellow brown of her skin, with small rosebuds woven directly into the fabric. “I’m going to get more wine,” she announces. “Does anyone want anything?”

“I’ll take mead,” Tim says immediately. 

“Perfect. Martin?” Sasha asks. 

“Er, I’m fine, thanks.”

Sasha gives him a bemused smile. “Martin, it’s the _Solstice,_ ” she says, as if he somehow hasn’t realized. “You’ve got to have some fun! I’ll bring you back a mead, how’s that? And Jon, anything for you?”

“I-I’m all right,” Jon says quickly. “I don’t really think I can—”

“Eat the food?” Sasha finishes. “Don’t worry about it. Queen Eithne already has your Name, what else could she do to you? A little drink won’t hurt.” She scrutinizes him. “You look like a wine person to me,” she decides, and bounces off toward the tree, where a couple of nymphs are pouring drinks. 

“Do you think she’s right?” Jon whispers to Martin.

“Yeah, I think so,” Martin whispers back. “I already told you this, remember? You’re already bound to the fae in the most important way.” 

“You should give it a shot!” Tim encourages. “Trust me, I’ve had that stuff you people call liquor, and it’s not the same at all.”

“That’s because _you_ like it strong enough to knock you out,” says Sasha, returning with three wooden goblets balanced in her arms. Tim grabs one from her and takes a gulp of it. 

He wipes his hand over his mouth and retorts, “I’m a water nymph, Sash. It has to be strong, otherwise it’ll get all diluted.” He grins. Sasha rolls her eyes, grinning back, and passes Jon one of the goblets. He takes it cautiously, raising it to give it a sniff. It must pass the inspection, because he takes a sip. 

“So?” Tim asks eagerly. “How is it?”

Jon takes another sip. “Strong,” he concludes. Sasha giggles. 

“Only the best stuff for the Solstice!” she says. “Here’s yours, Martin, go on.” She hands Martin a cup of mead and raises her own goblet. “A toast!” she declares. “To Martin and Jon!”

“To Martin and Jon!” Tim echoes, knocking his cup against hers. Martin takes a drink. The mead is rich and spiced, with lingering traces of honey-sweetness. When he lowers the cup, Jon is blinking hard into his glass.

“What?” he asks, grinning.

“Nothing,” Jon says, with a little shake of his head. He blinks again. “It’s just—strong, like I said.”

“You’re going to have to get used to it if you’re a guest of the Court!” Tim crows. “Oh, please tell me he’s a lightweight, Martin, I’d love to see this.”

Jon ducks his head, looking flustered. His hair falls into his face, and damn it, Martin wants to tuck it back again. Jon is just—he’s _adorable_ like this, all dressed up and shy about it. It makes his heart flutter. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with this feeling, except smile and let it warm him from within. 

“Well?” Tim says expectantly. “Are you going to give me an answer, Martin, or just look at him all night?”

Martin flushes. “Sorry,” he says. “I-I don’t know. How would I know?” He takes a big gulp of his mead to avoid looking back at Tim. 

“All right, all right, leave the boys alone,” Sasha chides Tim. Just as she does so, the fiddle player strikes up a new tune. It’s a spirited jig, and one that Martin recognizes; it has a traditional dance that goes along with it. Sasha’s face lights up, and she grabs onto Tim’s arm. “Oh, oh, I know this one!” she says. “Let’s go, we have to do it, come on!”

“I just got this!” Tim protests, gesturing with his cup of mead.

“Then drink it! It’s for drinking!” Sasha laughs. 

“Well, I do love a challenge,” Tim says, and throws it back. Sasha cheers as he downs it, and takes a swig of her wine.

“You’re supposed to drink wine slowly,” Martin complains. 

“Oh, don’t be such a snob, Martin,” Sasha dismisses. “You going to finish that, Jon?”

“Oh. Er, yes,” says Jon. He sips from his goblet, not as fast as Sasha, but quicker than he had before. 

Tim laughs. “You two catch up with us,” he says. He grabs Sasha’s hand, and they run off towards the fire and into the open meadow that has become a dance floor, disappearing into the crowd of faeries dancing in pairs. 

Martin finishes his drink, and waits for Jon to do the same. When they finally make their way towards the merriment, Martin’s head is pleasantly fuzzy, and Jon stumbles a bit as he walks. “You okay?” Martin asks.

“Yes, I just tripped over a root. I’m fine.”

“Here,” says Martin, and laces their fingers together. Jon’s hand is a warm, solid weight in his. It’s the only thing that keeps him from floating away. Jon smiles at him.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“What?” 

“You’re smiling,” says Jon. “A lot.”

“Oh! Oh, it’s nothing,” Martin says. “It’s just the Solstice, you know. Good times.” But it’s been the Solstice all day, and nothing has made him feel as giddy as the feeling of Jon holding his hand and trailing after him as they look for Tim and Sasha. 

They find them dancing together in the middle of the crowd. “Hey!” Sasha greets them. “You made it, I thought you might miss this song!” The music undercuts her words in a bright, jaunty melody. 

Martin turns to Jon. “You do this one with partners,” he explains. “Do you want to…”

“If you show me how,” Jon says. 

“Yeah, I’ll show you!” Martin says, beaming. “Here, watch.” 

Martin pulls Sasha so they’re facing each other. He taps his heel against the ground, getting a feel for the rhythm, and when the timing is right, they jump into the routine. They link arms and turn in circles once, twice, before they separate again, dancing back and forth in a trade-off of side-steps and twirls. The fiddle music bounces along with them, tripping from note to note in a quick refrain. 

Martin spins Sasha around, then lets her go. “See?” he says to Jon. “Not hard!”

“That looked _very_ hard,” says Jon. 

Martin laughs. “Only because you’ve never done it! It gets easier once you try.” He faces Jon, tapping out the rhythm for him.

“I’m going to be awful,” Jon warns him. 

“Can’t be awful, it’s just dancing!” Martin says cheerfully. “And here we go!” He grabs Jon’s hand and pulls him in. Jon stumbles, following Martin’s motions a step behind. He starts to pick it up after a few turns back and forth. His steps are too slow and often sloppy, but it keeps him going in the right directions, and when it’s his turn to twirl Martin, Martin spins right into his arms. 

“Hey, you got it!” he says, laughing. 

“I have, haven’t I?” Jon says, smiling. 

“Don’t hog the Archivist, Martin!” Sasha calls, dancing by with Tim. “You’re supposed to trade partners, you know!”

“Fine!” says Martin. He scoots in and grabs Tim’s arm, dragging him away from Sasha. 

“Oh, come on!” Sasha cries, but she takes Jon by the arm, and the two of them seem to get along just fine. Martin skips around with Tim, and at the right moment, he whirls back over to Jon, scooping him back up. It’s at this point that the music shifts, a second melody rising up beneath the first, and Martin’s wings flare out automatically.

Shit, he’d forgotten about this part. 

“You’re, er, supposed to fly for this bit,” he says awkwardly, and slows to a stop. Around them, faeries are starting to take wing, spinning up into the air. “Sorry. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I could give it a try,” says Jon. 

Martin blinks. “Really?”

“Why not?”

“Y-you’ve just never wanted to before, I thought…”

Jon shrugs. “First time for everything,” he says. Martin feels a smile spread across his face. He squeezes Jon’s hand, and with a decisive beat of his wings, they soar into the air. Jon squeaks and clings to Martin, looking down at the ground as it falls away. “It’s okay,” Martin reassures him. “You don’t have to hold on too hard, don’t worry. As long as I’m touching you, you’ll float just fine.”

“You can afford not to worry, you have wings,” Jon mutters. 

“Just relax, Jon.” Martin slowly pulls back, so there’s a few inches of space between them. Jon keeps a tight grip on Martin’s shoulders, staring at his feet. “Don’t look down,” Martin advises him. Jon’s eyes snap up to his, and Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He holds them steady in the air, turning in a careful circle. The music has wound down into something calmer, a slow, sweet tune, like the chirp of crickets and the mild air of a summer night. 

Jon never looks away. 

The air around them twinkles. Martin looks around, momentarily distracted. A lightning bug flashes near his head. “Oh!” he breathes. “Jon, look!” Jon reluctantly looks out into the air. The fireflies blink in and out, lighting up the night.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “That is beautiful, isn’t it?”

In the warm light of the fire crackling far below, his expression is soft, shadows flickering around the curves of his face. If Martin didn’t know Jon, he’d swear he was a faerie, he’s so effortlessly lovely. He isn’t holding so tightly onto Martin anymore. His grip is gentle, forearms resting easily on Martin’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” Martin whispers. 

A firefly flashes right between them. Martin blinks. “Hey, I think they like you,” he says. It lights up once more. 

“Hello, little one,” Jon says to it. “Enjoying the festivities?”

It blinks what might be an affirmative. “Are you enjoying them?” Martin asks Jon. “You, not the bug.”

“Yes,” Jon says. “I am. Very much.”

“Good,” Martin says. His chest is full and heavy with affection. It should make him sink to the ground, but instead, it just keeps him anchored in place, orbiting in slow circles with Jon. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair behind Jon’s ear. Jon smiles, and Martin’s heart could just burst. He wants to keep holding on like this, to pull Jon in and never let go, to kiss him so soundly that it sings through both their chests. He wants— 

Wait, hold on. 

Does Martin want to kiss Jon?

The second he poses the question to himself, the answer comes as an immediate, definite _yes,_ resonating through his entire body. He could. It would be so easy. 

But it would be so hard. 

Martin can’t do it.

“Is everything all right?” Jon asks. Martin suddenly realizes he’s frozen with his hand on Jon’s cheek. He snatches it back, his cheeks burning.

“Yes, sorry,” he says. “I-I just—it looked like it was falling in your eyes, is all.”

“Oh. Thank you, I suppose.” 

The music has faded into silence. The faeries around them begin to descend. Martin follows suit, gently bringing Jon back down to the ground. “See?” he says. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“It really wasn’t,” Jon agrees. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.”

They still haven’t let go of each other. 

Martin coughs, and Jon lets his hands drop at once. He looks away in that same adorable, flustered reflex. “Let’s go find your friends,” he says. 

Martin wishes he hadn’t let go.

***

After the Solstice, nothing changes. Martin isn’t sure why he _expects_ anything to change, of course—they had a nice night, but that’s all it was. Jon has no way of knowing the effect it’s had on Martin.

But what an effect it’s had. Martin’s always wanted to be near Jon, but now he’s _aware_ of it, the pull in his gut that makes him want to shift closer every time they sit down, or grab Jon’s hand, or do something really stupid like kiss him. It’s so much harder to resist now that he knows where the desire is coming from. Even thinking about it makes him freeze up, and with the constant ache in his chest as a reminder, there’s no escaping it.

Martin likes Jon. As in, _really_ likes him. He might be in love with him.

And it’s just as euphoric as it is terrifying. 

It makes him bolder, in some ways—one afternoon, as they’re taking a seat beneath a tree, Martin blurts out, “Can I braid your hair?” Jon looks surprised, but he nods, and before Martin knows it, there they are, close enough to touch.

He divides out two locks from Jon’s hair, one on each side, and parts the closer one into three smaller strands. He starts to weave them together with quick, practiced motions. “Do you do this often?” Jon says curiously, watching from the corner of his eye. 

“Sometimes,” Martin replies. “Sasha taught me. She always says I’m rubbish at it, though.”

Jon laughs. “I’m sure I won’t be able to tell.”

“Don’t overestimate me. But I guess I can always put a glamour over it if it looks awful.” Privately, Martin doesn’t think it _could_ look bad—nothing could look bad on Jon—but it’s his choice.

“No, I don’t think I’ll need it,” Jon says absently. “It doesn’t have to be _good_ for me to like it, it just… I-I just like that it’s from you.” He tries to turn his head, but Martin stops him, placing a hand on the back of his neck to keep him still.

“Don’t move, I’m still braiding,” he says, perhaps more softly than he needs to. 

Jon’s words play on repeat in his head as he works. _It’s from you._ Martin tries to make the braids as neat as he can, but he’s distracted enough that they still come out slightly uneven. Once he has two thin braids, he threads them together across the back of Jon’s head in a loose crown. 

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Now you look like a proper faerie.”

“Do I?” Jon asks. “I wish I could see it.”

Martin gets up, offering his hand to Jon. “Let’s go to the creek, then! You can take a look in the water.” Jon takes Martin’s hand and pulls himself up. He really does look like a faerie with his hair half-braided, almost regal—a living contradiction, with his sharp eyes and soft smile. He smiles at Martin now, and it’s a damn good thing he _isn’t_ a faerie, because if he were, he could put Martin under a spell just by blinking.

Maybe he already has. 

He doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand as they’re walking. Martin tries not to pay attention to it, but it’s all he can think about. It’s almost like having a headache—that state of being where no matter what you do, the pain is always pressed into your awareness. But instead of pain, it’s a racing heartbeat, the little sparks of delight every time they fall out of sync and Jon adjusts to keep their hands together. 

When they reach the creek, Jon leans over it, examining his reflection. He touches a hand to his braided hair. “Huh,” he says. “I suppose I do look rather like a faerie.”

“See?” Martin says, pleased. “I did a good job after all.”

“Yes, you did,” Jon says. His brow furrows, and he frowns at his reflection. Martin’s heart sinks.

“Do you not like it?” he asks. “I can take it out if you want, it’s not—”

“No, I do like it, don’t worry,” Jon says, still frowning. “It’s just… It reminds me of something your friend said, on the Solstice. She… suggested that I join the Court.”

Martin winces. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you’d never want to do something like that, but they just don’t realize. Manners aren’t quite the same for us. It was meant to be a compliment.”

“Oh, I assumed as much,” Jon says distractedly. “It’s just—well, I knew it was possible for humans to join the Court, I’ve read about it. And I know some humans can, in theory, become fae, if they spend long enough in service to the Queen, I-I just don’t know how common it is, or if there are any differences between the faeries who were once human and those who weren’t, o-or, I don’t know, I was just thinking—” He inhales deeply, and looks up at Martin. His gaze is piercing. 

“Did you used to be human?” he asks. “You feel different from the other faeries, and with some of the things you’ve said, I just—I was wondering if that might be why.”

Martin’s mind goes blank. Every possible response feels wrong. Not all faeries were once human, and the ones who were certainly don’t _talk_ about it. No one _asks_. He’s never had to say it before. The thought makes his insides squirm, but discomfort at the idea of being human would probably come off as rude to Jon, so…

“Yes,” Martin whispers.

Jon straightens up. He tilts his head, looking at Martin like he’s a particularly difficult puzzle piece that he can’t figure out where to place. “Are you comfortable with me asking about this?” he asks. 

“I…” Martin is at a loss for words. In all honesty, his answer should be no—it’s a taboo sort of subject, and he’s already feeling breathless at his own daring for answering Jon’s question. But then again… Jon has already told Martin why _he_ came to the Court. Martin owes him a story. 

And even going beyond repayment, it wouldn’t be so bad for Jon to know. If Martin is comfortable telling anyone, it’s him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jon says, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. We can forget it.”

“No!” Martin blurts out. “No, it’s okay. I just didn’t expect that question, is all. Er. What do you want to know?”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “I can ask anything?”

“Yeah. Or I could just tell the story, if you want.”

Jon walks over to the nearest rock and sits down on it, waiting expectantly. Martin takes a seat on an adjacent rock, facing the stream. He lets his wings unfurl and wave gently in the breeze. 

“I came when I was a kid,” he says. His reflection looks back at him from the creek, rippling in the surface of the water. He dips his toes in, the cool waters grounding him, keeping him in the present, away from the memories that stir faintly in the back of his mind. They’re tinged with melancholy and an old, old ache, one that he’s done his best to forget.

“There’s not much to tell, really,” he says with a shrug. “A lot of it’s faded. I think I had a family, once, but I don’t think I liked them very much. So I came to the Court, and I asked Queen Eithne to find me a new one. She Knighted me and made me guardian of Lunaris. I’ve been here ever since.”

Jon touches Martin’s hand. Martin’s fingers tense against the rock, but after a moment, they relax again, and he sneaks a look at Jon from the corner of his eye. Jon’s lips are pulled into a little frown, and in his expression is something that Martin can’t put a name to. Whatever it is, it makes him curl his fingers around Martin’s hand. “Is that really why you came?” he asks. “For a family?”

Martin shrugs again. “I wanted to belong somewhere. And I have, since the Queen took me in.”

“And does that… do you feel at home with her?” Jon asks. Ah, Martin knows what’s in his expression now—concern. 

“Of course,” Martin says with a small smile. “The Court _is_ my home. The Queen gave me that much, and in return, she got my service. That’s a pretty small price to pay to be loved.”

Jon goes quiet. “You shouldn’t have to pay a price to be loved, Martin,” he says. 

“For faeries, everything comes with a price,” says Martin.

Jon makes a frustrated little noise. “Yes, but—it shouldn’t _have_ to. Not for something like this.” He’s so earnest, so beautiful in the afternoon light, that Martin has to look away again, turning his gaze to their reflections. He watches as Jon shifts closer, until their shoulders are nearly touching.

“The Court isn’t the only place you belong, you know,” he says. 

Martin smiles at the water. “Yes, it is. But I only need the one place. I gave my life for that, and I’m happy with what I got in return.”

Jon squeezes his hand. “Is it really so unimaginable that someone might love you without asking for anything in exchange?” he asks softly. 

Martin’s breath catches. He looks to Jon automatically, reflexively, the same way a flower turns to the light. Jon’s eyes are so sincere it almost hurts, pulling at an ache deep in Martin’s chest—not the ancient loneliness he’d left in another lifetime, but its opposite, the deep and sounding resonance of an empty space, filled. He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling. It’s too big, too heartfelt. When he tries to breathe, it fills his lungs, and all he can feel is the dizzying pull towards Jon, like a planet falling into orbit.

“I don’t know what that’s like,” he whispers. “To just… accept something, without debt.”

“Yes, you do,” Jon whispers back. “You already have.”

His hands have found their way up to Martin’s face, and the pull is stronger now. 

When Jon leans in, Martin tilts his head up to meet him halfway.

Jon kisses him like it’s everything they’ve ever needed. Maybe it is. Martin melts into Jon’s touch and the warmth of his mouth, basking in the relief of finally, _finally_ being as close as he's wanted. His heart and mind and body all sing in unison, a wordless hum as Jon kisses him deeper, contentment seeping through all his senses. Martin lets out a happy sigh. Jon cups his face carefully, like he’s a treasure to be cherished and loved.

Martin hopes he makes Jon feel the same way.

The thought breaks him from his reverie. He pulls away abruptly, a spike of anxiety shooting through him. “You’re wrong,” he says, grabbing Jon’s hands and pulling them down, holding them in the space between them. “You’re wrong about me, Jon, I don’t know what it’s like.”

“Martin,” Jon starts, but Martin cuts him off.

“I don’t know how,” he says helplessly. “I can’t just accept things. Whatever you give me, I always want to give it back, I—I have to repay you! I can’t do it the way you do!”

To his surprise, Jon smiles. “Martin,” he says again. “Is it really about repaying me?”

“I…” Martin trails off. He’s never questioned it before. In all honesty, he stopped keeping track of actual debts with Jon a long time ago. Lately, he’s just been doing whatever he can, telling Jon all the tidbits of faerie trivia that he thinks he might enjoy, showing him the prettiest summer flowers in bloom, smiling back whenever Jon smiles at him. But he doesn’t _control_ that. He can’t help smiling around Jon. He can’t help giving him everything he has. 

He’d give it whether or not Jon had anything to give in return.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, I see.”

“I hoped you would,” says Jon. He smooths Martin’s hair back. “I wasn’t sure if… well. I know this isn’t something you’re used to. I would have understood if it wasn’t something you could reciprocate.”

“But I can,” Martin says at once. “I do.”

Jon smiles. Martin can’t resist; he leans in again, pressing his lips to Jon’s. 

Jon wraps his arms around his back, just below his wings, and it feels like a new kind of magic, sweeter than Martin has ever known.

***

As it turns out, there are many things Martin doesn’t know. The feeling of a lover’s hand in his, walking steadily at his side. The taste of a kiss, and how it changes throughout the day, sweet and lazy in the high noon sun, or quick and sneaky when twilight swallows the sky and goodbyes are exchanged. A kind of excitement that steals the breath from his lungs, and makes him stop before he can reach out to Jon, just to drink in the joy of it.

There are a great many things Martin doesn’t know, but Jon is more than happy to show him all of them.

The summer flashes along, days passing with each thump of Martin’s pulse. It’s a blur of smiles and laughter and kisses, honeysuckle-sweet. He roams the woods with Jon, and they seek out new corners to sit and talk, building the world around them as much as they observe it. Through it all, a deep, contented feeling curls within Martin’s chest. It feels as if, for the first time, he is exactly where he’s meant to be. 

Martin lays his head in Jon’s lap and listens to him read aloud, stories of star-crossed lovers and red strings of fate weaving into beautiful, intricate tapestries of blood and bond. The princesses and heroes and faeries alike all have places within the landscape, destinies woven into their very existence. It would be nice to be in a story, Martin thinks. Preferably one with a happy ending.

He shifts in Jon’s lap, Jon carding his fingers through his hair, a book open in one hand. 

“ _How can you dare,’ said she with an angry look, ‘descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a thief? You shall suffer for it,_ ’” he reads. _”’Ah,’ answered he, ‘let mercy take the place of justice, I only made up my mind to do it out of necessity. My wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such a longing for it that she would have died if she had not got some to eat.’_ ”

His voice is soft and rhythmic. Martin closes his eyes, allowing the scene to play out in his mind.

“ _Then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said to him, ‘If the case be as you say, I will allow you to take away with you as much rampion as you will, only I make one condition..._ ’”

Jon trails off. Martin opens his eyes to look up at him. “Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

“No reason,” Jon says distantly. He closes the book. “I was just… thinking about something.”

“What was it?”

Jon frowns, still running his fingers through Martin’s hair. “A long time ago, you told me faeries don’t usually get too close to humans because it might make the Queen question their loyalties,” he says. His hand stills. “Is this… I mean, if anyone knew…”

“They won’t,” Martin assures him. “We’ve been careful.” He only ever takes Jon to secluded spots where they’re not likely to run into anyone, or be spied on by any mischievous little sprites. Besides, as far as the Court knows, they’re just having lessons about faerie culture. Most people would find such a thing dreadfully boring—why would a faerie need to study themselves? Martin’s never sensed much curiosity towards the two of them, except when they venture into Faerie, which is why they usually don’t. 

The idea of being found out sends a cold stab of fear through Martin, but it hasn’t happened yet, and there’s no reason to believe that will change. A little paranoia is appropriate in this case, necessary, even, but Martin has always done everything he can to protect them, and he’ll continue to do so. 

So there’s no reason to worry.

“But suppose something goes wrong,” Jon persists. “What if there’s someone in the trees and we don’t notice, and they see us—”

“They won’t,” Martin interrupts. “I won’t let them.”

“You can’t _know_ that, though. If the Queen were to find out about us, then we’d be—”

“Why are you asking me this?” Martin asks, frowning. “Did something happen?” 

“No, nothing,” says Jon. “I was just thinking… is this the best choice? To keep hiding?”

“I…” The cold is spreading now, seeping through Martin’s veins. He sits up. “It’s worth it to me,” he says in a small voice. “But if you think it’s too risky, I would understand, you know I only want—”

“No, no! I didn’t mean it like that,” Jon says hastily. “I just meant—well, do we have to hide it at all?”

Martin stares at him.

“I mean, think about it,” says Jon. “You said that a relationship between a human and a faerie might make the Queen question the faerie’s loyalty. But what if she had allowed it? Then you wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.” He takes Martin’s hand, searching his expression. “What if, instead of keeping secrets from her, you just… got permission?”

Martin is already shaking his head. “She wouldn’t allow it,” he says. “She’d…”

Unless…

_Would_ she?

Martin doesn’t remember anyone attempting something like in the past, and he’s been in the Court a long time. Even if it had happened beforehand, he probably would have heard about it. Someone would have told him; Gerry, maybe, or Sasha. There’s just no precedent. Martin doesn’t know what the Queen might do. It might be a disaster—but it could also be a blessing. She _is_ known for behaving unpredictably; she allowed Jon to study her Court, after all. 

Martin bites his lip. “It’d be risky,” he says. 

“We’ll never know if we don’t try,” says Jon. “Odds are, she’s going to find out eventually. What if we could avoid all that? Maybe she’ll look favorably on you if you’re honest with her.”

That’s actually a fair point. Faeries cannot lie, except by omission, and they hate being deceived. If Martin could present it in such a way as to make himself seem completely truthful and devoted, it might work.

“I think it’s worth a shot,” Jon says, his jaw set with determination. “I’d rather go to her on my own terms than let her catch us by surprise someday.”

Martin grabs the front of his shirt and kisses him. He buries his fingers in Jon’s hair, keeping him close. He’s careful to be soft, but it does nothing to assuage the fierce ache in his chest, the pull of the strings that weave their fates together in a tapestry. 

Martin cannot write the ending to their story, but he can damn well try.

He rests his forehead against Jon’s, kissing him gently, until he pulls back just enough to speak. “Let’s do it, then,” he whispers.

***

On a fine morning when the breeze rides high and the sun is warm, Martin kisses Jon at the edge of the woods. “Wait here,” he says. “If I’m not back by sundown, leave, and don’t come back.”

Jon holds on tight to his hand. “I should come with you,” he says, eyes round with worry. 

Martin shakes his head. “I don’t want you to be too close, if this goes wrong.”

“But—”

Martin cups his face with one hand, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s cheekbone. “Put the horseshoe back over your door,” he says quietly. 

And then he leaves.

It’s strange, how everything feels the same as it always does. The wind is strong beneath his wings, the leaves of the trees are full and green, and the flight to Faerie is as easy as it has ever been. It almost feels absurd for Martin’s heart to be racing so fast. A day this lovely was not made for fear. 

But he prefers it this way. If this is to be the last time he sees his forest, he wants to see it at its most beautiful.

He slows down, taking in all the sights as he glides past them. The water of the creek is clear and sparkling. There’s a wood nymph dipping her feet into the shallows; she waves at him as he passes. Martin flicks his wings faster, and the trees rush by, carrying him deeper into the heart of the wood.

He breezes right through the tunnel and into Faerie, not stopping to admire the view from the hillside. He flies to the top, where the Queen’s grand tree waits, and only touches down when the Court is visible. The Queen is deep in conversation with an elven courtier. Martin hangs back, lingering just within the shade of the tree’s branches. There’s no telling whether she’ll be free as soon as he approaches, or busy until the end of the day. Perhaps it’d be better for him to wait. Yes, he really ought to just stay here and— 

“Hey, Martin!” calls a voice. Tim waves to him from closer to the tree, where he’s sat upon a particularly thick root. Martin waves back, gesturing for Tim to lower his voice, but Tim just yells louder: “Finally decided to come home? Took you long enough! Come on over, then, say hello!”

Not far away, Queen Eithne looks up.

Martin freezes.

Her eyes are pale green and piercing. She smiles, waving away the elf she’d been conversing with, and gracefully lifts her hand. She crooks one finger, and it’s like a hook yanks at Martin’s chest; he’s drawn straight towards her. He kneels at the base of her throne, bowing his head. 

“Martin, my child,” she says. “It’s been ever so long since you attended my Court. I was beginning to worry you’d forgotten your roots.”

“Never,” says Martin. “I’ve been working. With Jo—with the Archivist.”

“I assumed as much. You always were dedicated.” Queen Eithne’s smile widens. Martin feels like a mouse wandering over a cat’s claws. “What brings you into Faerie, then?” she asks. “Come to fetch him another story? Or have you grown bored of your assignment?”

Martin takes a deep breath. “Neither,” he says. 

“Oh?” The Queen shifts forward, leaning over the edge of her throne. “Not a story,” she notes. “And not a prayer for release. I presume you haven’t come for the pleasure of my company, so it must be…” She studies him closely. Martin carefully looks up. Something changes in her expression. 

“Ahhh,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “You want a favor.” 

…Shit.

Permission to love a mortal _would_ constitute a favor in her eyes, wouldn’t it? Beech and chestnut, Martin’s spent too much time with Jon. He didn’t even consider what this would look like, the price it might carry. And here he is, knelt before her and prepared to request her blessing, with nothing to offer her in return. 

Maybe he should turn back now. 

“What did you come to ask me?” the Queen asks. 

“Nothing of great importance,” Martin says weakly. He crosses his fingers that she’ll have mercy and allow him to dodge the question. 

No such luck. “I determine the importance of the matters brought before me,” says Queen Eithne, her eyes narrowing. “Ask me your question, Knight. And choose your words carefully.”

Martin swallows hard. 

“My Queen,” he says. “In all my time in this Court, you have never shown me anything but the greatest generosity. To serve you is a great honor. All I do is done with devotion to you, and—”

“Say it plainly, or say nothing,” says Queen Eithne, an edge of irritation in her voice. 

Martin’s hands are trembling where they rest against his knees. “You instructed me to teach the Archivist the ways of the fae,” he says, averting his eyes. “I have grown… attached to him. I wanted to ask if… if I might have your blessing, if I were to love him.”

The entire Court seems to gasp at once. Martin doesn’t dare to look up to see the Queen’s expression.

Her laughter is a shock. Martin is startled into looking. Queen Eithne laughs into her hand, light and ringing, like the clear strike of a bell. “Oh, Martin,” she coos. “Do you mean to tell me you do not love him already?”

Martin freezes.

“I do not doubt that you’ve already given your heart,” she says, amused. “The only question is what you will do about it.”

“And… what would you have me do?” Martin asks, his heart pounding.

Queen Eithne hums thoughtfully. She extends her hand, and a pixie zips to her side, dropping a honeysuckle flower into her palm. She raises it to her lips, sucking the nectar from the stem. “As I’m sure you understand,” she says, “I cannot have a prized Knight swear himself to anyone but me.” She drops the flower, and it flutters to the ground, forgotten. “In truth, I would rather have you forget the whole ordeal, and return to daily service in the Court.”

Martin’s heart drops into his feet. 

“But,” says Queen Eithne, and his hopes rise again fast enough to give him whiplash. “I doubt you would be happy with such an arrangement, and as you have said yourself,” she smiles sweetly, “I am a generous Queen.”

Martin hardly dares to breathe. “So…”

“If you can prove that your purest loyalties remain with me, I will allow it,” says Queen Eithne. 

“I’ll do it,” Martin says at once.

“It will not be easy,” says the Queen. “I must see your loyalties put to the test, and your abilities in equal measure. Thus, I will assign you three tasks. If you complete them all successfully, you will be free to love your mortal. Leave my Court and have your way with him, with the understanding that if I ever require your services again, you will heed my call.”

Martin can feel the catch like a stone deep in his throat, keeping him from breathing steadily. “And if I don’t complete them successfully?” he asks.

Queen Eithne waves her hand dismissively. “A failed Knight is of no use to me,” she says. “I would kill you both.”

Martin exhales shakily. “Right,” he says. It’s no surprise, really; that’s the standard punishment for an oathbreaker.

“And, of course, I will be keeping watch over him as you complete your tasks,” adds Queen Eithne. “To ensure that your resolve does not… waver.”

Martin grips tightly onto his knees. “With all due respect, my Queen, I don’t think that’s—”

“Retrieve the Archivist, and have him sent under the hill,” the Queen orders a nearby group of sprites. The closest one curtsies, and they go whizzing off towards the tunnel. Martin watches them go with dismay. It hasn’t been long since Martin left Jon at the edge of the woods; the sun has barely altered its position in the sky. They’ll be sure to find him. 

Hopefully, he won’t try to resist. 

“Now.” Queen Eithne sits back in her throne, satisfied. “Are you ready to receive your first task?” Martin nods. She smiles. Her fingers drum against the arm of her throne. “Very well,” she says. “For your first task…” 

The silence hangs over Martin’s head like a guillotine.

“Stop time.”

Martin can’t help it; he stares up at her, aghast. “What?”

Queen Eithne’s laugh is as airy and melodious as ever, easily playful, like she hasn’t just handed Martin an impossible task on a silver platter. You can’t just _stop time,_ there’s no magic in the world powerful enough for that. 

Martin fights to keep his expression blank even as dismay wells up within him. Elm and thistle, what has he gotten himself into?

“Is something the matter?” asks the Queen, still smiling. She might as well pull the strings on his limbs and make him dance. 

“Nothing,” Martin says. “I’ll… get right on it, I suppose.”

Queen Eithne claps her hands together, delighted. “Oh, wonderful! And one more thing, I almost forgot to mention.”

Oh, hell.

“You’ll have twenty-four hours to complete this task,” she says cheerfully. “Otherwise, I will count it as a failure, and you and your pretty Archivist will have to bid one another goodbye. I trust this won’t be too much trouble?”

Martin’s heart clenches. “Right,” he says faintly. “I… yes, of course.”

“Perfect. We’ll all be eagerly awaiting your return. Oh, I just can’t _wait_ to see what you come up with,” says Queen Eithne, beaming. There’s a faint buzzing noise, and she glances beyond Martin, her face lighting up. “Ah, and here he comes now!”

Martin whirls around. The gang of sprites she’d sent after Jon has returned. They carry him through the air and drop him unceremoniously beside Martin. He hits the ground hard and rolls over with a groan. Martin rushes to his side. There are vines tied around his mouth, gagging him. Martin rips them apart, magic tingling through his hands, and Jon coughs, curling into Martin’s arms. His hands are bound behind his back. 

“Welcome back, Archivist,” Queen Eithne purrs. 

“Is this really necessary?” Martin says desperately. The vines around Jon’s wrists are stronger; he pulls, but he can’t tear them off.

“Watch your tone, Knight,” says Queen Eithne. “I decide what is necessary and what is not. Saoirse, be a darling and stand him up, would you please?” A sprite zips over to Jon and yanks him to his feet. “Perfect. Now, Jonathan,” she addresses Jon, “as I’m sure you know, my Martin has come to ask me for my blessing. I’m perfectly willing to provide it, as long as he is able to prove his loyalty to me through three tasks. As he works, you’ll be staying with me, as… insurance, shall we say.” She laughs. “Who knows? His first task will only last a day. Perhaps you won’t have such a long stay in Faerie after all.”

Jon shoots Martin a frightened look. Martin squeezes his hand.

“I’ll do it,” he whispers. “I promise, Jon, I’ll figure out a way.”

No sooner has he spoken than the sprites swarm around Jon. He yelps as they scoop him up once more, carrying him off down the side of the hill. He shouts something at Martin as they recede into the distance, but his voice is lost beneath the buzzing of their wings. Martin’s heart aches.

“Well?” asks Queen Eithne. “Twenty-four hours is not a long time, Martin. Best get going.”

Martin crushes down the despair that’s threatening to overwhelm him, turns, and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO, we're finally getting into the meat of this story! sorry for the cliffhanger... you'll just have to stick around until next week and see what happens >:3c


	5. Chapter 4

There are no fewer than five books open on the table in front of Martin, none of which have been remotely helpful. There are descriptions of how time bends within Faerie, how days and years can slip out of alignment with the mortal world, and how a human trapped in the forest could spend a century there without aging a day. It’s interesting, but it’s all based on individual, subjective experience, not the objective idea that time itself can be stopped and started. It’s not what Martin _needs._

He’s trying very hard not to panic, and he is failing. 

“That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” says a voice. Martin jumps. Gerry sits on the edge of the table, looking over the books. He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You really think this is going to get you anywhere?”

“I didn’t have any other ideas,” Martin mutters. “I thought it might help me try and come up with something.” 

“It won’t,” Gerry says bluntly. “It’s impossible, Martin. You can’t just stop time, and no book is going to change that.”

Martin shoves the nearest book away. “I know it’s impossible,” he says. “But I have to find _something_. I can’t just lay down and let her kill me.”

“Actually, you could,” Gerry says mildly. “If you go to her now and apologize, she might drop the whole thing.”

Martin glares at him. “I’m not just going to abandon Jon.”

Gerry sighs. “Figures. I guess you wouldn’t get any smarter in the course of one afternoon.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Martin snaps. 

“It _means_ that you never should have tried this,” Gerry says with a scowl. “What were you thinking?”

“I just wanted—”

“Wanted what? Someone to love you? The Queen already does, we all do!” Gerry slides off the table and starts to pace around it, agitated. “I _warned_ you about this, I told you not to get attached, and now you’ve gone and—”

“That’s not fair—”

“I don’t want you to die!” Gerry says furiously. “You’re my friend, Martin, I was trying to help! Why didn’t you just listen?”

“I don’t know!” Martin bursts out. “I just couldn’t, okay? He’s not like faeries are, he’s different! I love him, and I don’t care if it’s foolish! He’s worth it.”

Gerry stares at him for a long moment. Then he sighs, his wings drooping behind his back. “You’re not changing your mind, are you,” he says. It’s not really a question. “Fine. It’s still impossible, mind you, there’s not a faerie in the Court powerful enough to stop time, but… if it means that much, you should go to him while you still can.”

He reaches into his tunic and pulls something out. He holds it out to Martin, flat in his palm—it’s a small, speckled-grey stone with a perfectly circular hole worn into the center. Martin gasps.

“Is that a seeing stone?” he asks, reaching out for it, but not touching. 

Gerry nods. “Have you ever been down to Eithne’s prison cells?” he asks. Martin shakes his head. “They’re covered in glamour magic. Really nonsensical stuff, spells so thick they make your head hurt. I think it’s designed to make you lose your mind after a while, or at least muddle you up enough that you can be turned back into a good little soldier.”

He drops the stone into Martin’s hand. “This is what kept me sane when she locked me up,” he says. “Maybe it can do the same for your Archivist.”

“You can just call him Jon, you know,” says Martin.

“I’d prefer not to,” says Gerry. “Easier that way, if you fail.”

Martin winces. “You don’t know that I will.”

“Well, you definitely will if you keep standing around here talking to me.” Gerry waves his hand. “Go, get moving.”

Martin curls his fingers around the seeing stone. He won’t let go of it until he hands it to Jon. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it means a lot—”

“ _Go_ ,” Gerry insists, giving him a little push toward the library exit. Martin takes the hint, and takes off at once. 

He’s never been to the dungeons under the hill where the Queen’s enemies are kept, but he’s certainly heard of them. Once outside the library, he flies deeper down the entrance hall, following the curve of the walls as they begin to slope downwards, descending into a progressively darker and earthier tunnel.

Eventually, the tunnel ends in a rough wooden slab of a door, a thick bronze handle set into the middle. Two elves stand guard. As soon as they see Martin, they straighten up, iron swords braced. “Who goes there?” one barks.

Martin drops to the floor, landing neatly on his feet. “I am a Knight of the Court,” he says. “Queen Eithne had a mortal man taken here earlier this morning, didn’t she?”

The elf looks unimpressed. “And if she did?” he asks.

“I’ve come to see him,” Martin says firmly. “Just to speak with him, nothing more. I’m sure the Queen would allow that much.”

The other elf nudges her partner. “This must be the one,” she says. “Let him in.”

The first elf’s lip curls. “Ah,” he says. “The traitor. Please, by all means.” He grabs the door handle and wrenches it open. Martin brushes past him, pushing down the hurt of being so easily branded disloyal. He can prove the guard wrong.

The hall that awaits him makes him stop short. His heart crawls into his throat, horror rising over him. 

Rows of iron bird cages line the walls, hanging just above eye level. Faeries and creatures of all kinds languish within them, their wings tied back, wrists bound by shackles. The magic blanketing each cage is thick enough to choke on. It distorts each figure’s outline and buzzes against Martin’s skin, a tangible, throbbing wrongness that looms over everything. 

The closest cage holds an emaciated faerie, slumped in the center of her cage, with angry red scars around her wrists and ankles—like Gerry’s, if they’d never had the chance to heal. Martin takes a cautious step towards her. She doesn’t react. He takes another step, unable to look away. Her wings, which should be clear and glossy, are dull. They’re strangely shaped, too, sharper than Martin is used to. 

She opens her eyes, and they lock straight on Martin. He swallows a gasp. 

Her eyes are pure black, so deep they could swallow him. He scrambles back. The pieces rapidly slot into place—her eyes, her wings, the smell of woodsmoke and pine when he gets too close. 

She’s Unseelie. 

She doesn’t seem to register his presence. She just lies there, limp and hollow, like a rotted tree with all the wood carved out. Martin slowly moves away. Even when he turns his head, he can’t erase the image of her from his mind.

He doesn’t know why it surprises him, to find an Unseelie faerie here. Perhaps she was a Knight once, or a spy, sent to infiltrate the Summer Court. She’s exactly the kind of person the Queen would want locked away.

She’s hardly the only one. As Martin looks around, there are Unseelie faeries everywhere, mixed in right along with the Seelie. There are satyrs and listless dryads, all held in the same miserable captivity. Martin covers his mouth with his hand. One sprite has his back to Martin, and where his wings should be are two knotted, ugly scars, streaked with the silver of Seelie blood. 

“Ash and nightshade,” Martin breathes. The scars don’t even look like they were made with a sword; it seems like his wings were ripped straight out of him.

Martin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can still feel the glamour magic pounding into his senses, and coupled with the mixed scents of iron, blood and dank earth, it’s making his head hurt. He has to find Jon, and quickly.

He walks swiftly past the rows of cages, all the way down to the end of the hall, where it curves into a rough, crumbling wall of soil. There is one cage sitting on the floor. No one’s bothered to hang it. Martin doesn’t want to think about why.

He kneels down. 

“Hi,” he says softly. 

Jon looks up, his gaze distant. “Martin?” he says dazedly. “Is that you?” He has his back to the far end of the cage. Martin almost startles, but of course—touching the iron wouldn’t hurt him, he’s human.

The glamour, though, appears to be working in full effect.

“It’s me,” Martin whispers. “I brought you something.” He takes out the seeing stone and pushes it through the bars, careful not to let them touch his skin. Jon looks down at it. “Take it,” says Martin. “It’ll help.”

Jon slowly reaches out and takes the stone. “Look through it,” says Martin. Jon raises it to his eye. 

The effect is instantaneous. Jon’s pupils expand and contract, and clarity snaps into his expression. “Martin,” he gasps. “Oh my God, it really is you.”

For some reason, Martin’s eyes are stinging. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a smile. “Yeah, it’s me, Jon.”

“Did you do it?” Jon says hopefully. “I mean, i-is it done?”

It’s like a knife straight to Martin’s heart. “No,” he says helplessly. “I-I mean, not yet. I’ll find a way, I promise. It’s not even afternoon yet, there’s plenty of time.”

Jon stares. “It’s not even… It feels like it’s been days,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Martin laughs humorlessly. “Time is weird.”

“Yes, it’s—wait,” Jon says suddenly. “Your time is still running, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working on the task?”

“I am,” Martin promises. He chooses not to mention that he doesn’t have any leads so far. “I just wanted to give you that stone. Gerry said it would help keep you grounded, while you’re here.”

Jon lowers the stone from his eye so he can examine it. “Yes, I suppose it would,” he says to himself. “That’s so strange, it almost…” He trails off.

“What?”

“It almost looks like the one that I had,” Jon murmurs. “Years ago, when I was a child. I lost it ages ago, though.”

“Magical objects are strange,” says Martin. “Maybe it’s found its way back to you now that you need it again.”

“Maybe,” Jon says softly. He looks at it for a moment more, then shakes himself. “You should get going.”

“Are you sure?” Martin asks. “I don’t want to leave you here.” He hadn’t known how bad it really was down here. Now that he does, leaving Jon to suffer feels like a betrayal.

“I’ll be fine,” Jon says firmly. “I’ve got the seeing stone. You go. I’ll be right here when you come back.”

“But are you _really_ sure—”

“Martin,” Jon says gently. He moves forward, kneeling just before the bars of the cage, and reaches through the bars to take Martin’s hand. His touch is feather-soft, and a steady, weighted calm falls over Martin. He breathes out, and he can almost feel the stress and anxiety rush out of him, dissipating into thin air. 

“I trust you,” Jon whispers. He leans forward so his forehead touches the bars and lifts Martin’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, all while keeping Martin’s skin a safe distance from the iron. 

Martin’s heart feels like it’s beating in slow motion. He can feel the space in between each beat, stretching further and further until he’s lost in the in-between. There’s only Jon, and his lips against Martin’s knuckles, and the comforting familiarity of his presence, even when magic swirls sinister through the air around them. Martin doesn’t think he’s breathing, but he doesn’t need to.

It’s like time… stops.

As soon as the thought occurs to Martin, he blinks, and the world flashes back to him. “You’re right,” he says. “I should go. But I’ll be back, Jon, I promise. You hear me?” He gets to his feet, looking straight into Jon’s eyes. “I’m not leaving you here.”

Jon nods. It feels like a granting of permission.

Martin turns and flies from the prison hall as fast as he can. 

He tears through the underground halls and tunnels, speeding past the library and out through the main door. The bright flare of sunlight is a shock, but he squeezes his eyes shut and keeps going, flying blind out into the open air. Once his eyes adjust, he shifts his course and zooms down over the Court. 

He lands in front of the Queen, dropping hard to his knees. 

“Was that enough?” he asks, his breathing ragged. “Was it?”

Queen Eithne raises her eyebrows. “Was what enough?” she asks.

“Just now. I-I was with him, and for a moment it felt like—oh, you must _know_ ,” Martin says desperately. “Does it count? Did I do it?”

Queen Eithne eyes him for a moment. Martin holds his breath.

Then she bursts out laughing. It crushes the air from Martin’s lungs. 

“Oh, precious one,” she says between fits of giggles. She delicately wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “What good is a feeling? _You_ might have felt eternity in a moment, but an eternity is very different from an ending. Here you are, after all. The world keeps turning. Time keeps ticking.” She smiles. “I’d advise you think of another plan.”

Martin stands up. The motion feels robotic, his legs disconnected from the rest of him. He unfurls his wings, and the feeling of weightlessness barely registers as he retreats from the scene. Queen Eithne’s laughter carries on the breeze behind him. 

He barely makes it to the side of the hill before he drops to the ground. He sits and buries his face in his hands. He would break the earthly laws of time and existence for Jon in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t know how. Gerry was right—again. There’s not a faerie in the Seelie Court powerful enough to stop time. And if there were, the Queen would surely have them killed or locked away, Martin thinks bitterly. Such a threat would never be allowed. 

_At least, not in the Seelie Court,_ a voice whispers in the back of Martin’s mind. _But there are others._

Martin pauses. He’s never heard of a sorcerer with the abilities he needs, but then again, he’s only ever been exposed to one half of the faerie world. Maybe, if he were to find someone else… 

It’s an incredibly foolish idea. Seeking out the Unseelie would hardly prove his loyalty to the Queen; it would be considered a direct act of treason. Besides, if he were to wander into Unseelie territory, he might be killed on sight.

But he’s going to die either way if he can’t come up with a plan. 

Martin looks up. The afternoon sun shines down.

He takes a deep breath, gets to his feet, and leaps from the side of the hill into the air.

***

Martin stops by his house before he leaves to retrieve the slim iron dagger kept beside his bed. It’s not much compared to a sword, but he’s not a member of the royal guard; his sword is confiscated as soon as the yearly battles are over, to be stored away until the next turn of the season. A dagger is better than nothing. 

It doesn’t take Martin long to pack up his things. As soon as he’s ready, he takes to the skies again. Most Seelie fae reside in the foothills surrounding the larger, main hill where Queen Eithne holds Court. Beyond a certain point, where the landscape slopes down into a broad valley, things get wilder. The aura of Seelie magic fades, replaced by a strange, but distinctive flavor of magic; it’s subtle, so much that Martin could almost mistake the woods for mortal lands, but it’s definitely there. It belongs to neither the Seelie nor the Unseelie. Out here, there are fewer Seelie fae and more unaligned creatures. Most are woodland spirits, like dryads or sprites, but there are faeries, too, living independently of a Court structure and swearing allegiance to no one.

As the landscape shifts, Martin flies more slowly. He stays just above the treetops, so he can see glimpses of the forest floor, but hopefully escape notice by anything that might be lurking there.

Eventually, a river cuts across his path. The banks are wide and grassy, with nothing to hide Martin from view. He hovers by the treeline, weighing his options, and finally floats down. There are boulders in the water like stepping stones; he can cross on foot. 

He slips on a glamour, thick enough to make anyone’s eyes slide right over him, and steps out towards the river. The water rushes by in tumbling swirls of blue-grey. He stares down into it, but can’t make out his reflection; it’s lost in the current. 

The first rock isn’t far from the bank. Martin carefully steps onto it. The surface is wet, but not terribly slippery, and it doesn’t move under his weight. Encouraged, he hops to the next one. The next is a little further away—he might not be able to make it in one leap. He jumps forward and beats his wings as he goes, soaring over the gap and landing solidly. His feet smack against the wet stone.

There’s a splash from the river. “Who’s there?” demands a voice. Martin freezes. He slowly turns, not making a sound.

A nymph treads water beside him, scanning the area with hard eyes and a scowl. Her hair is deep blue, hanging in spiky wet strands around her face. She dives below the surface again, and Martin follows the ripple of her outline as she swims to shore. She pulls herself onto the bank seamlessly, getting to her feet and raising a hand to her mouth.

“Georgie!” she shouts. “Come here, I need your eyes!”

Martin’s heart pounds. _Shit._ He’s decent enough with magic to glamour himself, but he has no idea if it’ll hold up under scrutiny. He can’t afford this kind of delay—he hasn’t even made it into Unseelie territory yet. He has to do something, and fast. 

Without stopping to think, he flares out his wings and makes a beeline for the trees. The water nymph yelps as he zips past her. “Georgie!” she yells again.

Martin makes it to the treeline and almost thinks he’s safe before a vine lashes around his torso, yanking him to a halt. His momentum throws him hard against the ground. He feels his glamour crack, and it melts away as he rolls over, groaning in pain. 

A foot plants down on top of his chest.

“So,” says a new voice. “What’s a Seelie faerie doing in these parts?”

Martin squints up at the speaker. It’s a dryad. She blends perfectly into the woods, with skin as dark as the tilled earth and a dress made of birch bark and leaves. Her hair is tied up in knots, vines woven in among them. The water nymph stalks up behind her. The two of them stare down at him with identical glares. 

“Hello,” Martin says weakly. 

“Well?” the water nymph demands. “You heard her—what are you doing here? This isn’t Seelie land.”

“I’m just passing through,” Martin says hastily. “I don’t mean any trouble, I swear!”

“Passing through to where?” asks the dryad—Georgie. “You’ll hit Unseelie territory if you keep going this way.”

“I know,” says Martin. “That’s where I’m going.”

Georgie looks perplexed. “Why? It’s not even the end of summer yet.”

“Never mind why,” the water nymph says harshly. “Turn back. You might not want trouble with us, but if you go picking fights with the Unseelie this early, it’ll only—”

“Melanie, hold on,” Georgie says quietly. She flexes her fingers, and the vine retracts from around Martin’s torso. She steps back, giving Martin an appraising look. “Why are you trying to get to the Unseelie?” she asks.

“It’s a long story,” Martin admits. He sits up, gingerly testing his wings. They’re tender from the impact, but not broken. 

“We have time,” says Melanie.

Martin doesn’t. “The Queen gave me a set of tasks,” he says. He’ll go with the abbreviated version. “I asked permission to do something she doesn’t want me to do, and now I have to find a way to do the impossible by tomorrow morning.” He sighs. “There aren’t any Seelie who can manage it, so I thought I might try to find an Unseelie sorcerer.”

Melanie raises an eyebrow. “What are you trying to do?”

Martin looks away.

“Well?” she asks impatiently.

“Stop time,” Martin mumbles. 

“You’re kidding,” Melanie says. Martin doesn’t respond, and she snorts. “You might as well give up now. Just turn back, go home, and stop causing us—”

“Wait,” Georgie interrupts. “Why would you come all this way for something like that? I mean…” She pauses, frowning. “You must know that’s impossible,” she says, softer. “So why are you still trying?”

“Because I have to,” Martin says miserably. “If I don’t, she’ll… she’ll kill the person I love. And me.”

Georgie touches Melanie’s shoulder. Melanie sighs, looking away. “I don’t even want to know what your face looks like right now,” she mutters. This time, when her eyes land on Martin, he takes a closer look; they’re glassy blue, like the surface of a still pond, and slightly unfocused. 

“He doesn’t even have a weapon,” Georgie says gently.

“Yes I do,” says Martin, a little insulted. He holds up his dagger. He’s not a _complete_ idiot. Georgie spares it a glance, but seems unimpressed. 

“Look, if we don’t help him out, he’ll probably just get himself ambushed,” she says to Melanie, as if Martin can’t hear her. “And… come on, Melanie. Faeries don’t lie. If it’s really for love…”

Melanie heaves a sigh. 

“All right,” she says wearily. “We can help.” 

She extends her hand, and Martin pulls himself up. “We happen to know someone,” she says. “A witch. She might be the strongest the Unseelie have, actually. She doesn’t live far. Let’s go.”

Melanie grabs Martin by the wrist and tugs him along. Martin is too bemused to protest. He can’t really complain about them offering to help; he’s got a deadline to meet, after all. Melanie drags him along a twisting, convoluted route that somehow seems to make sense to her and Georgie, but leaves Martin completely disoriented. 

He can feel the shift in the air as they descend into the land of the Unseelie. The trees grow thicker, with heavy branches that block out the sun. The ground is littered with pine needles. Even the heat begins to drain away. It’s still there, of course—it can’t be blocked out completely, not in the middle of summer—but it’s distant, feeling just out of reach, as if the sun is a thousand miles further away than it should be.

The most unsettling thing is the stillness. The usual signs of forest life are completely absent. There are no rustling leaves, no twigs snapping as small animals roam, no birds singing high above. The only sounds come from Melanie, Georgie and Martin making their way deeper and deeper into the wood. Their footsteps are painfully loud against the silence. Martin finds himself constantly looking over his shoulder, though nothing is ever there. He keeps one hand on his dagger. 

When the pine groves grow thick and dark enough that they feel like they might swallow Martin, Melanie slows to a stop. “We’re here,” she says. “Best keep your wits about you.”

Just before them is a small cottage. It’s nestled just between the trees like an egg in a bird’s nest—almost like the trees were grown deliberately around it, their branches curving in unnatural arcs around the walls. Georgie goes on ahead of them, darting up the path to the front door. Martin follows cautiously behind her. 

It’s only once he’s closer that he sees the thin, silvery strands wound tight around the trees—spider silk. Martin follows the strings with his eyes. They connect to the roof and the walls, laced in intricate patterns and lashing each piece neatly in its place. A delicate web stretches from the top of the doorframe to a little silver bell hanging before it. 

Georgie pulls a string. The bell tinkles merrily, and the strand is severed. It flutters loose in the air.

The door swings open. 

There’s no one behind it. The inside of the house is dark, and smells of dust. Martin peers in, but he can barely see through the blackness. 

“Well, no point in delaying,” Georgie says briskly. She steps forward into the house. Melanie follows. Not wanting to be left alone with the dark and cobwebbed trees, Martin slips in after them, and closes the door behind him.

As soon as he turns to face the inside, light flares all around. Martin squints as his eyes adjust. There's a counter in front of them, blocking entrance to the rest of the room, which is long and cluttered. Tall chests of drawers line the walls, and there are worktables strewn with small bottles and pieces of bone.

A small woman with a curling, mischievous smile stands behind the counter. 

“Hello!” she says. “What brings you to my humble home?”

She’s one of the more distinctly insect-like faeries Martin has seen, with several pairs of beetle-black eyes, and an extra set of hands clasped politely in front of her. Unseelie magic coats every centimeter of her, practically oozing through the air. Martin struggles not to gag on it. 

“Come now, one of you must be able to answer me,” she says playfully. “What about you?” She points at Martin, and there’s a sharp tug at his wrists and ankles; he yelps as a set of silver threads yanks him into a quick curtsy. As soon as his knees bend, they snap and release him. “Oh, how polite! But there’s no need for such formalities,” she says. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we… ah.” She giggles, touching one hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten my manners. Might I have your name?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin says firmly. 

She’s unfazed. “Pity,” she says. “I’m sure it’s a lovely one.”

“This is Annabelle,” says Georgie, inclining her head to the witch.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Annabelle says sweetly. “I assume you’ve come seeking assistance with magic?” She plants her lower set of hands at her hips and snaps with the other two. There’s a flash of strings, and the drawers lining the walls all fly open. She looks to Martin expectantly. 

“I have, yes,” says Martin. “I was wondering if… well, say there was something that most faeries said was impossible. Do you think you could do it?”

Annabelle laughs. “But of course, summerling! This is a house of magic.” She spreads her hands, sparks of pink and purple dancing between them. “I can grant your wishes, speak dreams into reality, and have your enemies fall dead the moment the request left your lips.”

“Can you stop time?” Martin asks. 

Annabelle hums thoughtfully. Her lower hands pull at strings of various heights; a bottle whisks out from a drawer and drops down into her reach, where her top right hand catches it. “This can trap a person or creature of your choosing in a single moment until you command otherwise,” she says. 

Martin shakes his head. “I don’t need a person frozen, I need time itself.”

Annabelle pulls another string. “I have a spell that can extend a creature’s lifespan by hundreds of years,” she offers. “Human years will pass by like days, and—”

“That’s not enough,” Martin cuts her off. Melanie gives him a sharp look; he knows he’s being rude, but he can’t help it. He can’t settle for second best, not when the Queen’s already laughed him out of her Court once. “Please,” he says desperately. “It has to be more than a feeling, it can’t just slow down. I need time to _stop._ ” He reaches into his tunic and holds out his pocketwatch for her to see. “Please, just tell me if you can do it.”

The watch ticks softly, counting down to the inevitability of Annabelle’s answer. 

Annabelle flicks her wrists, and the drawers slam shut. “Foolish boy,” she says, looking disappointed. “Don’t you know some things are beyond magic?”

Martin’s chest clenches. Georgie gives him a pitying look and squeezes his shoulder. He doesn’t have the heart to shake her off. All the feeling drains from him, leaving him numb with shock and a slowly dawning despair. 

This is it. He has no other ideas. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?” Georgie asks. “It’s important. The Seelie Queen herself sent him.”

Annabelle raises an eyebrow. “Then the Seelie Queen is a fool,” she says. “She must know that time does not bend to the will of the fae.”

“But he’ll die if you don’t do something!” Georgie argues.

“The life of one faerie does not concern me,” Annabelle says, examining the nails of one of her hands. “It does not concern you either, for that matter.” The light gleams in her black eyes, and Martin gets the sense that they’re trained on Georgie. “You claim no allegiance to any season, but expressing such care for a Seelie… it does call your motives into question.”

“Leave her out of this,” Melanie barks. “She’s just trying to do the right thing, same as always.”

“If only there were such a thing,” Annabelle says, feigning sympathy. She places her hands on the table, leaning forward towards Martin. “You’re a fool for accepting such a task,” she informs him. 

“Thanks,” Martin mumbles.

“But you are also the most amusingly helpless client I’ve had in quite some time,” she continues. “So I will help.”

Martin frowns. “I thought you just said you—”

“Not with magic, summerling,” Annabelle says scornfully. “There is another way.”

Martin’s heart skips a beat. “What is it?” he asks. 

Annabelle laughs. “So eager! I’m not going to give you the answer that easily. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

Of course. “I don’t have much to give,” Martin says warily. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” says Annabelle, waving one of her hands. “I have a more… specific favor in mind.”

Fantastic. Just what Martin needs—yet another mission to carry out. “What would you have me do?” he asks.

Annabelle smiles. “I am not from these lands,” she says. “I once lived far away, between the mountains. But a great beast invaded my home, forcing myself and the other Unseelie to flee.” She reaches below the counter and draws out a long blade of iron. Martin gasps. It’s nearly identical to the swords used by the Seelie, thorn-sharp and deadly down to the hilt. 

“Take this,” she says. “Use it well. Let me return home safely, and I will do the same for you.”

She holds it out to Martin. “Th-that’s very thoughtful of you, but I’m all right, really,” Martin stammers. “I-I have my knife, it’s really quite—”

“I insist,” Annabelle says with a smirk. “Consider it a… gift.”

Martin would _really_ rather not. But Melanie is giving him a death stare that seems to say _just go with it,_ and Annabelle is already sliding the sword into its sheath. She passes it over the counter, and he takes it. 

“So, how do I stop time?” Martin asks. 

“A simple enough trick,” Annabelle says with a shrug. “Linear time is… indefinite. Faeries ought not to bother with it. Simply disregard its arbitrary rules, and it will cease to be.”

Martin waits for her to go on, but she folds all four hands, seemingly finished.

“That’s _it_?” he says incredulously. “You’re telling me—what, just stop caring about time, and that’ll be enough? Don’t you think I would’ve tried that already? The Queen will never accept it!”

“Careful, Martin,” Melanie says under her breath. 

“No! That’s not fair! You can’t just tell me to chase some monster out of your homeland and give me a piece of shitty advice in return.” Martin pushes the sword back at her. “Keep your bargain. I’m not taking it.”

Annabelle spreads her hands. “Too late, my friend,” she says. “Whether or not you heed my advice is not my problem. I have done _you_ a favor; now it is your turn. As the humans say… no takebacks.”

 _This_ is why Martin doesn’t associate with the Unseelie. Well, that’s not entirely true—there are plenty of other reasons, but their dirty tricks top the list. “Fine,” Martin snaps. He shoves the sword into the loop at his belt. The weight at his side plucks at a tense, frayed nerve somewhere deep within him, playing at memories of battles waged over the hills. His grip on the hilt tightens automatically. He might not be fighting a war today, but it’ll take about as much heart. 

“We’re done here,” he mutters to Georgie and Melanie. “Let’s go.”

“Great! Thanks, Annabelle,” Melanie says brightly, and she’s out the door in a flash. Georgie gives her a more graceful nod, and turns to Martin expectantly. 

“Well?” Annabelle purrs. “Any thanks for the village witch?”

Martin sighs. It may be unwise to indicate any further signs of debt, but what the hell, he’s done enough reckless things today. “Thank you,” he says grudgingly.

Annabelle wiggles her fingers goodbye, a pleased little smile playing at her lips. The lights dim. Martin backs out the door as quickly as possible. 

As he turns to the woods outside, he almost breathes a sigh of relief, but it catches in his throat.

The sky is a deep, dark blue, with a paler shade streaking out from the horizon. Stars wink at him from above. The trees are nothing but a mass of shadow, except for the top branches, where sunlight is just beginning to warm them into green. Martin’s blood runs cold. 

“Pine and thistle,” he says, choked by horror. “How long were we in there? It was evening when we went in!” 

“What is it now?” Melanie asks, looking up at the sky with blank eyes. “It’s cooler—is it night already?” 

“It’s almost morning,” Georgie murmurs. “Must be more of Annabelle’s tricks. It might not have been wise to antagonize her.”

Martin fumbles for his pocketwatch. The hands tick towards six o’clock. The numbers don’t mean much, not as much as the awful certainty that dawn is rapidly arriving. “No,” he breathes. “No, not now, not _now_ —” 

But just as he pleads in vain for the sun to shrink back over the skyline, he feels it. A tingling, airy pull of magic like a string tugging at him. He can almost hear Queen Eithne’s faint whisper on the wind, the voice that he is bound to obey, no matter the cost. 

_Time’s up. Come home to me, Knight._

“Thank you for helping me,” Martin gasps out. He reaches for Georgie’s hand, to give it a squeeze goodbye or to try and anchor himself here, he doesn’t know, but before he can, the pull tears at his chest, yanking him violently into the sky. 

Something in his mind shuts down. His vision shudders and blurs. His wings buzz mechanically, moving beyond his control; he can scarcely feel the morning light as dawn envelops him. 

Sunrises are so often depicted as a symbol of hope, but this one is a death toll.

Martin’s senses only begin to clear as he descends over the Summer Court. Queen Eithne lays across her throne, the train of her flowing white dress spilling over the edge and hanging nearly to the ground. It waves gently in the breeze. She waves, too, a little curl of her fingers that melts away the magic drawing Martin closer.

But magic or no, he still kneels at her feet. He has no other choice.

“Welcome home, my little wanderer,” Queen Eithne says, amused. “You’ve strayed awfully far. What have you brought back? Any miracles to show me?”

Martin swallows hard. He pulls out his pocketwatch once more, looking hard at the ever-ticking hands and willing them to freeze. 

“Unless, of course, you’ve brought nothing,” says the Queen. 

Martin stares at the watch in his hands. Annabelle’s words echo in his ears: _simply disregard its arbitrary rules, and it will cease to be._

“In which case, you will have failed your task,” says Queen Eithne, sounding more delighted with every word. “And I’m sure you know what that—”

“I didn’t fail,” Martin says suddenly. “I know how to do it.”

He’s been going about this the wrong way. It isn’t magic he needs, but a change in perspective. When something only exists as long as it is measured, in order to stop it, one must… stop measuring it. 

Martin gets to his feet, rips the chain from the stopwatch, and smashes it at his feet. 

There is silence in the Court. 

Martin slowly bends down to pick up the broken remains of the watch. The glass face has shattered, and the ornate hands are bent beyond repair. They will never move again. He holds it up so Queen Eithne can see. 

“I did it,” he says steadily. “Here’s your proof. Time has stopped.”

He holds eye contact with the Queen, and prays that it will be enough.

For a split second, her graceful smile flickers, and fury flashes through her eyes. It’s gone in an instant. Queen Eithne swings her legs into a proper sitting position and sits up straight. “Very clever,” she says lightly. “You’ve exceeded my expectations.”

It feels like the world is lifted from Martin’s shoulders. He lets out a relieved breath.

“Are you prepared for your second task?” Queen Eithne asks. Martin nods. “Very well. Bring me the heart of the Briar Wolf, and you may live to see the day you love a mortal freely.” 

Martin bows low. He has no idea what a Briar Wolf is, but if all she asks is for him to slay a beast, it should be much less trouble than the first task. There isn’t even a time limit this time. He smiles to himself. 

The morning sun shines against the back of his neck, as warm as the confidence blooming in his chest. 

The sunrise might just become a symbol of hope after all.

***

This time, a trip to the library actually yields results. It takes some searching, but eventually, Martin stumbles across a mention of the wolf of Briar Hollow, most often referred to as the Briar Wolf. 

Briar Hollow is a village four days from Lunaris. It’s tucked between two tall mountains, with a lake just beside it. There isn’t much information available—apparently, the mountains combined with the thick greenbriars that grow all around the woods make the town fairly isolated. There isn’t much that would make it notable, except the wolf. 

There’s a woodcut illustration of it, hulking and monstrous, looking more like a troll than a wolf with its contorted snout and protruding teeth. Humans half its size flee from it in terror, while others lie dead on the ground. The artist has given a disturbing amount of attention to the blood dripping from their corpses and the wolf’s teeth. 

Apparently, the thing appeared a few years ago and slaughtered half the village before people managed to evacuate. Martin shudders and stows the book away in his bag. He can worry about how he’s going to fight _that_ thing later. Now that he knows his destination, he ought to get moving quickly. Queen Eithne might not have given him a deadline, but he’d prefer not to leave Jon alone for long.

Once he feels like he’s done enough research, he goes straight down to the dungeons. The guards recognize him this time, and allow him through without a word. Martin marches past the cages of pitiful fae to the end of the row. They’ve actually hung up Jon’s cage now. 

“Martin!” Jon says eagerly. “You’re back! I was starting to get worried, are you all right?”

“Am _I_ all right? Jon, you’re the one who’s sitting in a cage,” says Martin. He floats up to meet Jon. “I’m fine. I finished the first task, I’m onto the second now.”

“What do you have to do?” Jon asks.

“Kill a wolf. I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet, but I’ll manage something,” Martin says with a small smile. More than ever, he wishes he could reach through the bars to kiss Jon. It must show in his face, because Jon sticks his hands through. Martin takes both in his and laces their fingers together. 

“I might be away for a while,” he says. “The wolf is in a town a few days away. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

“I’ve been all right so far,” Jon says with a shrug. He holds up his seeing stone. “This has been helping.”

“Good,” says Martin. He glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “Just don’t let anyone see you with it, they might take it away.”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Martin,” Jon says dryly. “I’ve been careful.”

“Good. I just…” If Martin were to complete all three tasks, only to return to Jon gone glamour-mad, he might fall apart. He squeezes Jon’s fingers. “Keep being careful,” he says. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I know,” Jon whispers. “Be safe.”

“Always.” Martin lifts Jon’s hand to kiss his knuckles, just as Jon had done for him. “I’ve already done one task, now I’ve just got to do it again. How hard could it be?”

***

Martin isn’t sure how much to pack. Briar Hollow is only a few days away in theory, but he has no idea if he’ll be delayed on his journey, or run into trouble once he’s there. He ends up stuffing as much food into his bag as he can carry, along with the sword he got from Annabelle and a change of clothes.

He makes it exactly one step out his front door before Gerry plummets down out of nowhere and lands in front of him. “Afternoon,” he says. “Off on a new suicide mission?”

Martin frowns. “No.” 

“Well, you’ve got the right to be in denial, I suppose,” Gerry says offhandedly. “I’m surprised you survived this far, honestly. Well done.” Martin tries to move around him, but Gerry sidesteps into his way. 

“Gerry,” Martin says quietly. “I have to leave now.”

“What, no time to catch up with an old friend?” Gerry asks. His smile is forced. “You don’t have to be back by morning this time, you know.”

“I know,” says Martin. “But I want to be back as soon as I can.”

“For the Archivist,” says Gerry.

“Yes.” 

Gerry sighs. Martin can feel his next words like a storm rolling in. He tries to move again, but Gerry blocks him.

“Martin, it’s not worth it,” Gerry pleads. “You could still turn back. You’ve shown up Eithne once, she won’t want to risk it happening again. You could just tell her you’re done, and—”

“I thought we were done with this,” Martin says tensely. After Gerry had given him the seeing stone for Jon, he’d really thought that maybe things had changed, that Gerry might finally be on his side, or at least willing to leave him be. But Gerry’s always been stubborn. 

“I thought she was going to kill you when you came back with nothing,” says Gerry. “What would you have done then?”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Martin says sharply. “I’m not going to die. It’s worth the risk to me. We’ve already established that you don’t understand, so will you just—”

Gerry laughs incredulously. “I don’t understand?” he asks. “You really think that? You…” He shakes his head with a strange, sharp smile that reminds Martin of broken glass. “Fine,” he says. “Follow me, if you think I’m so ignorant.” 

He turns on his heel and takes off. A gust of wind hits Martin in the face. He curses to himself. He really should get going, but… even after everything, Gerry is still his friend, and he would hate to leave him on a sour note. Especially on a mission as risky as this one.

And he can’t say he’s not curious.

So he follows. Gerry cuts a swift, direct line through the sky, heading towards Lunaris. Martin has to beat his wings hard to keep up. Thankfully, the breeze is with him, and he rides the current over the trees. 

Gerry doesn’t stop once they reach the edge of the wood. One second he’s there, and the next, the telltale shimmer of a glamour winks over him. Martin quickly draws one around himself as well. It feels strange to be out in the open. He’s always felt exposed just walking near Lunaris; flying over it is a new level of exposure. If Gerry is at all nervous about being seen, he doesn’t show it. He zips over the streets, the thatched rooftops and the old church, until they’ve gone all the way to the other edge of town, where the buildings thin and peter out into a lush meadow. 

That’s where Gerry stops. 

He drops down without warning. Martin shoots past him and has to backpedal, floating down to meet him. 

“What are we doing here?” he asks, looking around. He’s never been to this side of Lunaris. There’s a familiar note of magic in the air, just as there always is around the village, but this far from the forest, it’s fainter. Maybe Gerry wanted to take him someplace quiet, far from any listening ears. 

“I want you to know something,” says Gerry. His voice is steely, his eyes cold. Martin swallows hard. “I know you think I don’t understand the situation you’re in, but you’re wrong. I know you think everything’s going to work out, that as long as you try your best, you and Jon will get your happily ever after.” He laughs bitterly. “You think love will save you.”

“Maybe it can,” Martin whispers.

“It won’t,” Gerry snaps. “Don’t you get it by now? I’m not telling you to give up because I think it’s wrong to love him. It’s not! You _should_ be able to be together, but Eithne will never allow it! She’ll find a way to fuck you over in the end, and then you’ll both be dead. That’s why I’m telling you to stop. If you really love him, you won’t keep putting him in danger like this!”

“I won’t let anything happen!” Martin says defensively. 

“You can’t know that!”

“I know I can’t!” Martin bursts out. “I know I can’t _really_ know if he’ll be hurt! But I’ll keep him as safe as I can, and that’s the best I can do! I have to stay positive, I mean, what else am I supposed to do?”

“Give up,” says Gerry. “Move on. _Protect_ him.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Martin says, frustrated. “That’s the part you can’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like, you’ve never loved a human!”

“Yes, I have!” Gerry snarls. 

Martin’s next retort, already waiting like a loaded slingshot, dies in his throat. He stares at Gerry. Gerry stares back, his face flushed with anger and something else, something that’s maybe always been there, too subtle to notice. 

The breeze ripples through Martin’s hair. 

“What do you mean?” Martin whispers. 

“I mean exactly what I said,” Gerry spits. 

“But…” Martin’s head reels. He doesn’t even know where to begin asking questions, or if he should.

“I was just like you,” Gerry says fiercely. “I watched over Lunaris. I got too comfortable there. I spoke with humans, I saved lost children running through the woods, I loved a human, and I risked everything for a chance to be with him. Three times.”

“What happened?” Martin breathes. “The Queen didn’t kill you?” 

Gerry shakes his head bitterly, and stamps one foot on the ground. Martin looks down and gasps.

Just between them is a pale, flat stone, set into the ground in what’s unmistakably a grave marker.

“After I failed, she didn’t need to kill both of us. She thought keeping me alive to bury him would be a worse punishment,” says Gerry. “She was right.”

Martin swallows hard. “Is that why…” He inclines his head to Gerry’s scars. Gerry looks down at his wrists.

“Oh, the imprisonment thing?” he asks, and smiles wryly. “No. _That_ came after I took my revenge on half her Court.”

Suddenly, Martin understands why so many other Knights stay away from Gerry. 

“Do you get it now?” Gerry asks. “There are some things that faeries just don’t get to have. Eithne is…” He grits his teeth. “She’s out of touch with human emotion, but that can be a good thing, for a faerie. She knows how to rule a Court well.”

“How can you say that?” Martin demands. “After what she did to you?”

“I’ve had a long time to think about it.” Gerry shrugs. “I’ve grown up since then. He was always going to die, no matter what I did.” 

“But weren’t you angry?” Martin presses.

“Of course I was!” Gerry snaps. “I was angry for years! I could’ve been killed just for how pissed I was!” He sighs. “Eithne always thought it was funny, though, so she kept me around. I’m glad she did. I had a lot to learn about being a faerie.” His face hardens. “And so do you. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

“Why does it have to be me who learns, though?” Martin mutters. “Why can’t the Court change?”

“It’d take a hell of a lot to get that to happen,” says Gerry. “You shouldn’t waste your time trying to do the impossible.”

“Fine,” says Martin. “Maybe I’ll just leave, then.”

“It’s not that simple,” Gerry says softly.

Martin averts his eyes. When he looks down, he ends up looking straight at the gravestone. It makes his heart twist. How long ago was it put there? Did Gerry have to bring it himself, drag it across the open meadow so he would never forget the exact spot where his heart was buried? 

Will Martin have to do the same?

No. He’s already come this far. He can’t just abandon Jon to the Queen’s mercy; he has to at least _try_. There are still two tasks left; there’s no guarantee that his story will have the same ending as Gerry’s. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. 

Gerry sighs. “Yeah,” he says glumly. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“I hope things are different this time,” says Martin.

Gerry gives him a sad, fleeting smile. “Me too,” he says. He sits down, just before the stone, and rests his chin on his knees, staring out across the field.

Martin thinks it might be time for him to leave.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says. “I promise.”

He knows it might not be a promise he can keep, and Gerry knows it, too. But he’ll make it anyway. 

Martin turns away, and instead of flying, he walks through the wild grass back to Lunaris. His wings feel too heavy to carry him. He only takes off once he reaches the edge of town. Even then, the weight is felt, like a stone in his chest reminding him of everything that lies ahead.

He keeps flying towards it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple of notes:
> 
> first - leaving gerry's past lover nameless was a deliberate choice on my part. i know there's a fair variety of gerry ships (oliver, michael, mike, etc) and ALL of them are rarepairs so i thought eh, what the hell, might as well let people imagine whoever their fave is. (and if you're not invested in any of those pairings, it can just be a random human! this isn't gerry's story anyway, so his identity isn't a critical detail).
> 
> second - this story now has an AMAZING piece of fanart by [choco-drops](https://choco-drops.tumblr.com) on tumblr, which can be found [here.](https://choco-drops.tumblr.com/post/628805442409299968/drew-smth-for-spiralsandeyes-lovely-fic-rosemary) i lose my mind every time i look at it, so if you happen to create art or anything based on this story PLEASE PLEASE tag me in it because i will cry and give you my firstborn child.
> 
> see you next week!


	6. Chapter 5

The journey to Briar Hollow isn’t as simple as the books make it out to be.

Martin had copied down some maps he found in the library, but he’s not much of a navigator—partially because he’s never traveled beyond the village—and it’s all too easy to lose his bearings. He makes it out into the hills with no trouble, except a brief rainstorm that nearly soaks him to the bone before he finds a tree large enough to protect him. Then he spends an entire day flying in what he _thinks_ is the correct direction, only to recognize a river on the edge of the map and realize he’s been heading the wrong way.

To call it frustrating would be a massive understatement. Martin can’t even enjoy the new sights all around him, not when he knows that each minute he spends looking, Jon is waiting for him back home. Besides, looking is… difficult. As far as the eye can see, there are rolling hills spotted with trees, an endless world of green. Trying to stare out into that vast landscape is like trying to look directly into the sun; it’s too much all at once. 

Martin has always known, in an objective sense, that the world does not end beyond the borders of Eithne’s territory. There are other villages out there, other Courts. He’s just never had to look them in the face before. It makes his own home feel distant, like it ceases to exist when he blinks. He’s just one faerie, floating untethered through an unfamiliar world, and the longer he follows his map, the more lost he feels.

Home never truly leaves his mind, though. Every time he finds a tree branch or a cave to curl up in and go to sleep, it’s Jon he dreams of, waiting to welcome Martin back into his arms when all of this is over. When he wakes up, the lingering impressions behind his eyes give him the strength to keep going.

It’s harder to keep track of time now that his watch is broken, but he tries his best to make note of the days. Once, he stops in a clearing, and finds a pile of blackened logs in one area where there’s more dirt than grass—the remains of a campfire. He doesn’t stay long enough to see whose it was. He just takes a piece of charcoal and uses it to mark off the days on the back of his hand. Four sunrises. Three sunsets.

The tallies on his hand accumulate, until there are seven black marks lined up on his skin. A week since his departure. He takes it in stride and keeps moving, and by the time the sun has risen fully into the sky, the mountains part to reveal a glittering lake, with patches of green all around it. It matches the illustrations from the books exactly. 

Martin heads for the side of the lake, where the village should be. Hopefully, he can find some records of the time before the wolf came, something that can help him figure out a way to beat it. He’ll have to find the village first, though. It’s got to be here somewhere.

His books hadn’t exaggerated about the briars surrounding the town. They’re tangled together so tightly Martin can barely see through them, forming a dense wall that stretches well up into the neighboring trees. Thick, needle-sharp thorns protrude from their stems at every possible angle. As Martin gets closer, he could swear they shift at his approach, the thorns subtly curving to point directly at him.

Normal briars aren’t like this. Something’s wrong.

Martin flies over the plants, giving them a wide berth. As soon as he crosses over the highest thorns, something shifts; his ears pop, and for a moment, the world is more colorful. He falters in midair, turning back to look over the briars.

A shimmering, barely-visible veil stretches over them like a soap bubble. It’s a barrier—a magical one. Martin hadn’t even noticed it before.

Apparently, the briars aren’t the only thing keeping Briar Hollow isolated.

He turns to face forward again. The forest stretches out a ways into the distance, but he can see where it ends now—after a while, the trees suddenly thin out, leaving room for a wide open area. Martin can make out rooftops and the outlines of buildings. Relief washes over him. He drops down into the city so fast he stumbles on the landing.

Once he’s righted himself and brushed the dust from his pants, he straightens up to look around. He’s standing in what must be the center of the village, with little shops lining the streets. Their windows are all dark. 

Martin walks up to the nearest one and puts a hand to the glass, peering inside. There are no customers to be seen. The counter is unattended, and the glass cases next to it are empty—if Martin had to guess, he’d say the shop used to be a bakery. He doesn’t have to go inside to see the thick layer of dust caked over everything. 

He moves on to the next shop and finds a similar scene. No people; nothing but empty space and dust. When he walks further down the road, his footsteps are loud and clear, breaking through the quiet of the village. The utter silence has a tingle of anxiety running through Martin. He knows the place is abandoned, has been for years, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. 

He keeps walking. 

The rest of the village is much the same. Even when he wanders into the residential area, with little houses and cottages scattered about, they’re all empty. Many of them are broken down, walls collapsed in on themselves, with deep claw marks gouged into them. It makes Martin shudder. He can’t stop looking over his shoulder—at one point, he catches a flicker in the corner of his eye and jumps a foot, only to recognize it as his own shadow. 

Martin exhales slowly, forcing himself to relax. There’s no one else in this village; that much is obvious. He has nothing to be afraid of.

Something touches his foot. He yelps and jumps back.

A mouse skitters a few feet away and stops short, a ball of grey fur against the cobblestone road. Its tiny body shakes with shallow, frightened breaths. Martin breathes a sigh of relief. “Spruce and nettle, you scared me,” he says. He crouches down slowly, extending his hand. “I won’t hurt you, don’t worry,” he says with a small smile. “You’re the first living thing I’ve seen in this place. We ought to look out for each other, don’t you think?”

The mouse doesn’t move. It just stays frozen. The trees rustle in the distance, tossed by the breeze. 

“It’s a shame you can’t talk,” Martin says to himself. “You could tell me about the wolf. How do you think I could fight something like that, hm?”

The mouse darts away. It scuttles down the road and disappears beneath the crumbling porch of a house. Martin watches it go. It feels like a sign—the village itself will be of no more help to him. If he can’t find any answers here, he’ll have to go out and search somewhere else. He stands up. The wind has gotten louder; there might be a storm rolling in. He should find some shelter for the night, then he can work out a plan tomorrow morning. Sleeping in the abandoned houses feels odd, though, like he’d be intruding, or disturbing the balance of the place. Martin turns toward the woods instead.

His heart nearly stops beating.

“Oh,” he breathes. 

The sound wasn’t the wind after all.

At the edge of the woods stands a massive wolf, at least four meters tall, its lips curled back to bare its fangs. Its breathing is loud and raspy, just beginning to edge into a growl. A ring of thorns encircles its neck, tangled tight around its tawny fur and staining it red in patches. 

Its yellow eyes are fixed on Martin.

“Hello,” Martin says weakly. “I take it you’re the Briar Wolf, then.”

Speaking to it is a mistake. 

It snarls and lunges forward. A single leap, and it’s nearly on him. 

Martin shrieks and beats his wings frantically, zipping straight up into the sky. The wolf rears up on its hind legs. He throws himself out of the way. Its jaws shut only inches from him. 

He flies up higher. It swipes at him with a massive paw, but he’s out of range; its claws slice uselessly through the air. 

Martin hovers over it, his entire body tense, ready to dodge a blow if it comes. The wolf falls back down on its haunches. It seems aware that it can’t reach him at the moment, but it keeps a ready stance, too, crouching low, poised to spring. It looks straight at Martin the entire time. The ferocity in its glare sends a shiver down his spine. This is not a mindless beast. There’s intelligence in those eyes, and hatred so strong it burns. 

Martin shakily draws his sword from its sheath. The wolf growls, low and guttural. 

He can’t possibly fight it now. He’s not ready; it’ll tear him to pieces. Every second he spends looking at it, he’s more and more certain that he can’t take it on in pure combat. It’s big enough to swallow him whole. If he’s to kill it, he’ll have to outsmart it somehow. And he can’t do that on the spot. 

Martin drifts backwards through the air, not taking his eyes off the wolf. When he’s floated halfway down the street, the wolf gets up and trots after him. Martin inhales deeply and keeps going. He doesn’t dare turn around. 

It follows him all the way to the bell tower at the center of the village. Martin’s confident that it won’t be able to reach him there—while the smaller buildings show clear signs of destruction, the tower only has a few scratch marks at its base. He lands up by the bell, grabbing onto one of the support pillars. The wolf paces around below, sniffing at the tower and growling up at him.

It stays there for hours. By the time it huffs to itself and wanders off, the sun is beginning to set. There’s just enough light for Martin to watch it slink back into the forest. 

He exhales slowly. 

This is going to take some serious planning.

***

Martin isn’t a strategist. Even when he fights for Queen Eithne, he’s only a Knight, one of many foot soldiers battling it out across the hill. He’s never tackled anything larger than a troll, and as big as trolls are, they’re also incredibly stupid. The Briar Wolf is completely out of his league. Queen Eithne must have known—that must be why she sent him.

But Martin won’t give up so easily. He stays up late, staring up at the sky and thinking until his brain hurts. Reasoning with the thing is clearly out. Even if it can understand speech, Martin doubts it would let him get two words in before biting his head off. Fighting it one-on-one is also out, for similar reasons. He figures his best bet is to trap it somehow. 

It seems too smart to fall for a simple trick, though. He’ll have to distract it. Not that he knows what kinds of things might distract it. _Martin_ seems to be the most interesting thing it’s seen in a long time. 

This leads to the unfortunate conclusion of using himself as bait. 

Martin is not a fan of this idea, but it’s the only one he’s got. 

He rises before daybreak to gather supplies. The village might be abandoned, but its inhabitants may have left some things behind. He tries all the shops and manages to find a few traps, but they’re all for much smaller animals. The store that might have been an apothecary yields a few jars with rusty lids, which he pries open, only to be nearly knocked over by the foul smell of the tinctures inside. He does find an old pot and metal spoon, which could be useful noisemakers if he needs to get the wolf’s attention, but they’re not likely to help with the actual trapping process.

He’s almost beginning to reconsider the idea of one-to-one combat when he finds the cottage near the woods. Beside it is a chicken coop, and there, hanging up on a nail, is a coil of long, thick rope. The edges of it are blackened with age, and it’s stiff to the touch, but it looks like more than enough to make a snare. 

Martin has just lifted it off the nail and laid it out on the grass to inspect its length when a twig snaps in the distance. He looks up, and a pair of yellow eyes stare back at him from the treeline. 

Martin bolts. This time, he has a head start. The wolf sprints after him, but he makes it back to the bell tower safely, and despite its snarls of frustration, it still can’t touch him. 

It doesn’t stay for long. Martin’s already proven himself willing to wait it out, and the wolf must have easier prey to hunt. It’s a good thing it does—Martin’s precious food supplies are running low. Faeries might not need to eat quite as often as humans, but they still need food, and he can’t hide in the tower forever. When the wolf leaves, it gives him an opportunity to look through the forest for berries or anything else that can supplement his rations. 

At first, the wolf never leaves him alone for long; it’s gone for a few hours at most, but it always returns to the tower to glare at him and pace around threateningly. After a while, though, it lets him be for longer stretches of time—whether it’s bored or just getting lazy, Martin couldn’t say, but he appreciates it. It gives him the opportunity to drag that rope into the woods and start building his trap. 

The rope is heavy and difficult to work with. Carrying it leaves Martin’s hands red and sore, so he switches to throwing it over his shoulder. He wraps it around two large trees, fashioning it into a loop snare that he can only hope will be tight enough to hold the wolf, and arranges vines over it to disguise the rope. 

He doesn’t have to wait long to put it to the test. When he goes back to the village, the wolf is already laying down at the base of the tower. Martin takes a deep breath, brandishing the pot and spoon he’d found in the village.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Here I am, out in the open! Come and get me!” He bangs the spoon against the pot, a loud metal clanging echoing across the village. The wolf’s ears perk up, and it whips to look at him. It gets up right away. 

Martin doesn’t wait to see it approach—he turns and zips into the woods. He can hear it charging after him, a great crunching of earth and sticks beneath its feet, branches snapping as it tears through them. Martin dips and weaves through the trees. Hopefully the wolf won’t get tired of chasing him. He’s got a route all mapped out, with certain trees marked by the disgusting-smelling salves from the village, so if the wolf strays from the course it will—hopefully—be directed back onto the correct path. 

Martin doesn’t think it’s going to get bored any time soon, though. He can practically feel its hot breath on his wings. He risks a glance over his shoulder, and the sight of it snapping at his heels sends a bolt of panic through him. He speeds up. They’re almost to the snare. Just around the oak tree, past the fallen log, through the forked branches—there!

Martin beats his wings in a final burst of speed. The rope grows closer. At the last second, he tucks his wings in and sails through on his own momentum, neatly avoiding tripping the snare. Just as he starts to fall, he flaps them open again and hovers in midair. He looks back at the wolf and braces himself.

Seeing him stop, it plows towards him. It doesn’t even seem to notice the snare. Martin crosses his fingers. 

It surges toward him, fangs bared. Martin’s heart stutters. For a split second, he can see directly into its open mouth, past its massive yellow teeth down into its throat. It’s too close. He has to move, he has to move _now_ — 

Then its neck fits right into the snare, stopping it in its tracks with a sharp yank. It snorts, tossing its head, but the rope just tightens around it. Martin breathes a sigh of relief. The wolf snarls, attempting to claw at the rope, but it can’t reach its own neck. 

Martin draws his sword. Now, for the tricky part. 

The wolf backs up, tugging at the rope around its neck. Its hackles are raised, and as Martin approaches with the sword, it thrashes wildly at its restraints, biting and clawing at any section of the rope it can reach. Martin flies over its head, trying to come up from behind it, maybe land on its back, but it keeps turning in circles, making it impossible for him to get too close. “Come on,” Martin hisses to himself. “Just hold _still!_ ” 

The wolf pulls hard at the rope, straining against it. Martin takes a deep breath, steels himself, and dives down. The wolf turns, and in the split second’s opening it gives him, Martin lands on the back of its neck and clings to it, burying his hands in its thick fur for grip. It barks furiously. He raises his sword, aiming for the bloody patches of fur on its neck where its collar of thorns may have already weakened it. 

The rope is nestled just between the thorns. As Martin watches it, time seems to slow down.

The weak old fibers of the rope rub against the barbs as the wolf struggles. They catch on a sharp thorn. 

The rope snaps.

“Shit,” Martin breathes. 

The wolf bucks hard. Martin grabs at its fur, but his grip slips. He’s thrown from its back. He drops through the air, shock jumbling his senses, and hits the ground hard. Pain sears across his back. He cries out, rolling onto his front, but the damage is done—one of his wings hangs limp at his back, how badly damaged, he can’t tell. It feels torn. He tries to raise it, but the resulting wave of nausea makes him woozy. 

The air above him is hot and rancid. 

Martin slowly pushes himself up on his elbows and looks up.

The wolf stares down at him, breathing heavily. There’s nothing holding it back. Martin fumbles for his sword, but it’s nowhere to be found; he must have dropped it when he fell. Fear paralyzes him. All he can do is look back into those yellow eyes, where his fate is sealed with a gleam of malice. 

“Grab on!” shouts a voice. Martin barely has time to react. Something crashes into him. The impact bumps his wing, and he cries out in pain, but reaches out blindly all the same. The next thing he knows, he’s shooting through the air, pulled up into the trees. The wolf leaps, but its efforts are in vain; Martin is high above it now. 

It throws back its head and howls in frustration.

Martin can barely keep up with the trees and branches moving past him. Everything hurts. His head pounds. His body aches. His wing is on fire, a slow pulse of pain that takes him over like gravity. He tries to speak, but the words all blur together. “Who’re you?” he finally mumbles.

“No questions,” snaps the voice. “I could drop you right back down there, you know.”

“Please don’t,” Martin slurs. 

The browns and greens of the forest go dull, fading out at the edges until blackness swallows him.

***

Martin wakes up with a splitting headache and an uncomfortable tightness in his chest and wrists. Memory drips back into his mind. Along with the latent fear comes a heavy, slow disappointment. Sure, he’d almost died, but he’d been so _close_. He’s not going to get another chance like that, not now that the wolf has learned his tricks. And especially not with an injured wing. It hurts just as much as he remembers. Maybe even worse, now that he’s got this chest ache on top of it. He’s not sure where that came from. 

He opens his eyes and looks down. 

Apparently, it came from being tied to a chair.

“So you’re awake,” says a voice. 

Martin looks around. He can’t immediately tell where the voice is coming from. He’s in the middle of what appears to be someone’s living room, or at least someone’s house. It’s… raw, for lack of a better word. The room is shaped oddly, with walls of bare and rough-cut wood. In a few places, what appear to be sections of tree trunks protrude through them. It’s a treehouse; it must be.

The most striking thing about it, though, is the art. There are paintings hung up across every bit of available space, some studies of the forest, some portraits, all bursting with brilliant color. 

“You’re the first outsider I’ve seen in a long time,” says the voice. Martin looks over to see a human walk in the front door. She’s tall and slender, dressed in earthy shades, from the tips of her brown leather boots to her moss-green headscarf. She strides past, keeping one eye on him, and sits down on the small couch before Martin. Her gaze is calculating, but she says nothing more. She seems to be waiting for him to speak.

Right, of course. He’s forgotten his manners.

“Thank you for saving me,” says Martin. “That was… really close.”

She arches an eyebrow. “It was,” she says. “Surprisingly close. Almost as surprising as it is to see a faerie in Briar Hollow.”

“It seems like it would be a surprise to see _anyone_ in Briar Hollow,” Martin says with a nervous laugh. “Are you the only one left?”

“Yes,” the woman says curtly. 

Well. That’s unfortunate. 

Martin fidgets in his seat. The rope is beginning to chafe at his wrists. “So, erm. Is there a reason why I’m tied up?” he asks. That seems to contradict the whole saving-his-life thing. He’s hoping it’s just some kind of misunderstanding, but that hope is being slowly crushed every second she spends looking at him like that, her expression bordering on open hostility.

“You’re a faerie,” she says flatly. “Isn’t that reason enough? If we’re asking questions, I should be the one to start. What the hell are you doing here?”

Okay, so they’ve reached open hostility now. Perfect. But maybe once this woman realizes his intentions are good, she’ll reconsider? After all, if she lets him go, he can take care of the wolf, and things will probably get a lot easier for her. 

“I was sent to kill the Briar Wolf,” Martin explains. “I read about how it drove everyone out of your village, and my Queen sent me to—”

“I don’t give a damn about your Queen,” the woman snaps. “She’s done enough.” She stands up abruptly and walks out of the room. When she comes back, she’s holding Martin’s sword. Martin freezes. She points it at his chest. 

“There haven’t been fae in this village for years,” she says, “and if you lot start coming back now, there _will_ be consequences.” 

“I-I don’t mean any harm,” Martin stammers. It’s hard to focus with the iron blade aimed right at his heart. All the thoughts slip out of his head like water between his fingers. “I’m just here for the wolf, that’s all! Queen Eithne didn’t say anything about the village itself, o-or the people, I just have to kill the wolf, then I’ll be on my way!”

The woman frowns. “Queen Eithne?” she asks. “You…” She trails off. After a moment, she slowly lowers the sword. “You’re not from the local Court, are you?”

Martin shakes his head quickly. “I don’t know anything about the local fae,” he says. “I came from Lunaris.”

“So you don’t serve Queen Aisling?” the woman asks.

“I don’t even know who that is!”

The woman gives him an appraising look. She sets the sword down on the table and sits back down on the couch. “All right, then,” she says. “What does your Eithne want with the Briar Wolf?”

“Nothing,” says Martin. “Not really.”

“Wrong answer, try again.”

Martin sighs. “She didn’t send me on a mission just because she felt like it,” he says. “It was because of me. She assigned me three tasks, this is just one of them.”

“If she doesn’t care if the wolf lives or dies, why would she send you to kill it?” the woman challenges.

“Because she thinks it’s impossible,” says Martin. “The tasks aren’t _meant_ to be completed. She…” He hesitates. The words ache, but deep down, he knows they’re true. “She doesn’t want me to succeed.”

“Why?”

Martin bites his lip. The woman scowls at him. “Go on,” she says. 

“I asked for her blessing to love a human,” Martin says in a small voice. “If I succeed in my tasks, I’ll be allowed to. If I don’t, she’ll kill us both.”

The woman snorts. “You honestly expect me to believe that?”

“Faeries can’t lie,” Martin reminds her.

“But you’re awfully good at twisting the truth.”

“I don’t have any reason to!” Martin says desperately. “Can’t you just let me go? I promise I won’t make any trouble. Once the wolf is dead, you’ll never see me again. You must have had people you loved, didn’t you? Before the wolf attacked? Can’t you understand how important this is?”

“ _Don’t_ talk to me about love,” the woman snarls. Martin flinches. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I don’t care who you are or why you’re here, but you’re not going to lay a finger on her. Try to escape, and you’re dead. Understood?”

“Her?” Martin questions.

The woman stands up. “Wait!” Martin blurts as she stalks out of the room. “Wait, what’s your name?”

“Nice try,” her voice comes from the next room. 

Martin sighs. 

So now he’s been given an impossible task _and_ kidnapped. 

Great.

***

Night falls, and nothing has changed. 

Martin shifts in place, trying in vain to get the ropes into a more comfortable position. They just pinch his sides. The rough fibers scrape against his injured wing, and he winces in pain. He tries again, jerking forward so the chair thumps across the floor, but it doesn’t make the restraints any more comfortable.

The door off to the right creaks open. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to escape,” the woman says crossly. “Do you even know what time it is?”

“I don’t,” Martin says through gritted teeth. “And I’m not. It just hurts.”

“Tough.”

“One of my wings is torn.”

There’s a pause. “I noticed,” says the woman. “I tried to work around it.”

“Well, you didn’t do a very good job,” says Martin. He rolls his shoulders, and the resulting stab of pain makes him hiss involuntarily. The woman vanishes back into her room. Martin curses to himself. Complaining to her isn’t going to do anything; she’s already demonstrated that she doesn’t care about him. No, scratch that: she actively dislikes him. She doesn’t seem to like any faeries. One hurt wing isn’t going to make her any more pleasant. 

A soft pair of footsteps approach. There’s a scraping sound in the darkness, and a match flares up. The woman lights a lantern and sets it on the table, coming around behind Martin.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he asks, craning his neck to see. “What—”

“Do you want me to fix it or not?” she asks irritably. “I just need to see.” 

Martin goes very still. The woman places her hand against his uninjured wing, shifting it to the side, and adjusts the ropes around the other. “Oh,” she says. “That is pretty nasty.” She pauses. “There’s no way you’re going to be able to fly on that. Not for a week, at the very least.”

“You’re really overestimating how fast wings heal,” Martin mutters. 

“I’m not,” she says. “I was just making sure you knew, so you don’t get any ideas.”

“What?”

There’s a soft thump, and the sound of a cap being unscrewed. Martin tries to turn around again, but the woman pushes his head to face forward. “Keep still,” she says firmly. “This is going to hurt a bit.”

“What are you—ah!” Martin bites his lip to keep from crying out. The woman’s hands aren’t particularly gentle. Every touch is like fire to his overly-tender wing, and whatever cream she’s spreading over it stings like hell. He grips the edges of the seat hard, focusing on breathing in and out. After a minute or so, the screwing sound comes again.

“Done,” says the woman. “That should be a little better.”

“What was that?” Martin asks. 

“Just a salve. It’s magical, it should ease the pain. And make things heal up a little faster, but like I said, don’t go getting any bright ideas about escape.”

The throbbing in Martin’s wing is already beginning to lessen, replaced by a soft, cool tingle. “Where did you get something like that?” he asks curiously. “You’re not magical, are you?”

“No,” she says shortly. “There are witches in the area.”

“I thought you were the only person in—”

“Not in the village,” the woman says scornfully. “I said in the area. Any magical creatures that still live around here are too smart to walk right into town.” She takes the lantern from the table and goes back to her room.

“Er, thank you, I guess,” Martin says to her retreating back. “Good night?”

The door closes. 

Martin rolls his shoulders experimentally. This time, there’s only a low, barely-noticeable ache; nothing like the sharp pains from before. 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and hopes that maybe now, he’ll be able to sleep.

***

As much as Martin hates being held captive, he has to admit, it could be worse. The woman feeds him, and even lets him out of the chair when he needs to stretch his legs—even if she does hold him at swordpoint the entire time, and his hands stay bound, it’s a relief to have a moment’s reprieve.

She doesn’t seem to have any particular plan for him aside from holding him hostage. Martin tries to strike up conversation a few times, maybe get some answers, but he’s either ignored or met with clipped, one-word responses. The first day is boring. The second day is worse. By the third, the monotony is itching at Martin, and he still hasn’t managed to break out of his restraints. As delicate as the woman appears, she’s damn good with knots, and she always makes sure to tighten the ropes firmly when she gets him back in the chair. 

Existing under her watch almost feels like living in the village with the wolf. Sometimes, she sits in the same room as Martin, keeping one eye on him while she chops ingredients for meals or reads. Other times, she vanishes into her room, or out into the forest. Martin isn’t sure what she does out there, but every time she goes, she slings a bag over her shoulder and changes into greener clothes. Maybe the camouflage helps her avoid the wolf. 

He’s not sure about what’s in the bag, but he has some suspicions about the paint stains on the corners of it, and the outlines poking through the sides that might be brushes. 

At least when she’s away, he can look at the paintings on the walls. 

The one nearest to her bedroom door is a study of a tree, painted in strokes of russet red and crimson. The colors collide in a way that should feel sloppy, with thick strokes that draw streaks of unmixed paint across the canvas, ending in sudden smears or trails where the shade feathers away. It’s not unpleasant, though. There’s intention in the disorder, and when it all comes together, the tree stands as a scarlet homage to the wild beauty of the forest. Every time Martin looks, there’s a new painting to notice, or more details to be found in the ones he’s already seen. 

He glances at the door. The woman—the artist—has been gone for most of the morning. She probably won’t be back until the afternoon. 

He’s not one to turn down an opportunity.

Martin leans over, digging his heels into the floorboards to drag his chair a few centimeters forward. The artist always takes his sword with her when she leaves, but maybe there’s something else he could use to free himself. Her bedroom is closed, but there’s nothing blocking the cabinet and counters by the front door; maybe he could find a knife or something inside them.

He scooches forward bit by bit. His uninjured wing is tied down—looser than his hands are, but still enough to keep him from flapping it. The torn one is essentially free. Martin has only recently regained the ability to move it, so attempting to put any serious weight on it seems like a bad idea, but he doesn’t need serious weight, does he? He just needs a little momentum. Just enough to propel himself toward the cupboards.

Martin braces himself, and, like jumping into cold water, gives one hard flap. 

His chair is sent scraping a small ways across the floor before it topples over, carrying him with it. 

Martin manages to bang both his shoulder and his head against the floor. “Fuck,” he groans. At least he didn’t land on his wing again.

But now he’s stuck on the floor. 

His cheek is mashed uncomfortably against the floorboards. He turns so his face isn’t holding up most of his weight. There, that’s step one down. He tries to brace his fingers against the floor, but his wrists are bound too tight to the arms of the chair to get any leverage. His best bet is to try his wings again, but there’s no guarantee he won’t just crash into a wall instead of lifting himself up. Plus, his wing is aching too much for him to be enthusiastic about that plan.

“Fuck,” he mumbles again. 

Then, just because the universe hates him, there’s a rumble from outside. 

The quiet pitter-patter of rain slowly washes over the roof. Martin heaves his weight to one side, and the chair thunks over. It’s not particularly comfortable, but at least his face isn’t on the floor now. He’s much closer to the door than he was before, with a better view through the little window carved into it. There’s a distant crack, and the trees light up with a flash, followed by a low boom of thunder.

Martin closes his eyes. Until the artist gets back, there’s not much he can do but wait and listen. He wonders if it’s raining in Lunaris, too. If Jon would be able to hear the thunder from underground.

The gentle rain quickly turns to a downpour, pounding against the roof. It’s the kind of storm that crashes through the monotony of hot summer days, washing away the humidity-induced haze in a pure, powerful cleanse. The air smells fresher, like damp earth and moss. Martin wishes he could step out into it and feel the drops against his cheeks. 

Instead, he’s stuck on the floor. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before the door bangs open. The rain splatters loudly against the ground, and the artist sweeps inside. She’s completely drenched, her headscarf and cloak clinging to her wet skin. She drops her bag onto the counter and shoulders the door closed. 

“Hi,” says Martin.

“Do I even want to ask?” she asks, only glancing down at him for a moment before going to hang up her cloak. 

“I just fell,” Martin says meekly.

“So I assumed.” The artist shakes the water from her hands and sweeps out of the room. She comes back a few minutes later in a fresh change of clothes and reaches over, hauling Martin’s chair back upright. All the blood that had rushed to his head rushes back out again, making him briefly dizzy. 

“Thanks,” he says, the room slowly spinning back into place. 

“Don’t mention it,” says the artist. She opens up her bag, pulling out a square wrapped in cloth and a handful of brushes. Next comes a palette and a few tubes of paint. She unwraps the square and props it up—it’s an unfinished painting, with only some base shades of beige and brown layered over it, and a few touches of black. 

Squeezing out some fresh paint onto the palette, she gets to work.

It’s like she doesn’t even remember Martin is there. He watches her brush the paint across the canvas, carefully layering strokes until they begin to come together into a picture of the wood. One second, it’s all just blocks of color, then a background of branches starts to peek through, and a pale outline before it. Shadows fall into place, marking limbs and a face. Streaks of cream and chocolate brown blend together to form a pelt. The details are still fuzzy, but an instantly recognizable rendition of the Briar Wolf stares out from the canvas.

Somehow, the artist makes it look beautiful.

“That’s really good,” says Martin. 

The artist pauses with her paintbrush raised. “I’m not making it for you to admire,” she says.

“I didn’t say you were,” Martin says hastily. “I-I just think it’s really nice, that’s all. They all are.”

She gives him a sidelong glance. “You’ve been looking at them?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Martin asks. “I’m tied to a chair.”

The artist nods. “Fair,” she says, and picks up her brush again. 

“How long have you been painting?” Martin asks, on the off chance that she’ll respond instead of just ignoring him. She probably won’t. 

But as she’s dabbing her brush into the pool of brown on her palette, she says, “A long time. Ten years, maybe?”

“That’s a long time,” says Martin, more out of politeness than a true understanding of exactly how long ten years is. “How did you learn?”

The artist gives him a suspicious look. It takes a moment for her to respond, but in the end, she must decide that there’s no harm in giving up the sensitive information that is her history as a painter, and she says, “I taught myself. Started small, then got better, and then…” Her lips thin into a tight line. “Then everyone left. I had a lot of time to practice after that.”

“Why didn’t you leave with them?” Martin asks. It’s a question that’s been niggling at him for days, but he hasn’t dared to ask. 

“You came through the barrier, you must have felt it,” says the artist. “It’s magical. A lot of the local Seelie are still around, so they can come and go as they’d like, but humans… it blocks us out completely. If you leave, you can’t come back in.”

Martin furrows his brow. He’d noticed the magic, certainly, but he had just assumed it was a protective measure, keeping danger out. “Why would you need to keep _humans_ out?” he asks.

“To keep us away from the wolf, I assume. To keep her isolated.” 

“But you stayed?” 

The artist nods shortly. “I had to. And there’s not much to do around here even if you aren’t tied up, so.” She waves her paintbrush. “This is what I do. Helps pass the time.”

Martin frowns. “Doesn’t it get lonely here?”

The artist glares at him. Shit. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” he says nervously. “I just figured—sorry, nevermind.”

He expects her to look away and give him the silent treatment for the rest of the afternoon. That seems to be her usual go-to. But today is a day of surprises, apparently. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about it,” she mutters. “This is just what I have to do.”

“Well,” says Martin, “you don’t _have_ to.”

The artist gives him a weird look. 

“You could let me go,” Martin says tentatively. “I could take care of it. You wouldn’t have to… keep an eye on the wolf, or whatever it is you’re still doing here.”

The artist returns to her painting and barks out a laugh. “You’d never be able to kill her,” she says. “You got away from her once. She’s not going to let it happen again.”

“But isn’t it worth it to try?” Martin presses. “There’s two of us now, we could work together!”

“No,” the artist says sharply. “I already told you. I’m not going to let you hurt her, and I’m sure as hell not going to help."

“ _Why_?” Martin asks, exasperated. “If it’s really that dangerous, why don’t you just help me get rid of it? Or leave, at the very least?”

She takes a sealed jar of water from her bag and dunks her paintbrush into it with a little more force than is necessary. A bit of water sloshes out. “I’m not about to tell you my entire life story just because you asked for it,” she snaps. “People like you are the reason we’re stuck like this in the first place.”

“So what are you going to do?” Martin challenges. “Keep me tied up here forever? Keep watching me all the time, giving me your food—”

“I could stop doing that,” she warns. 

“Are you seriously just going to keep me hostage forever?”

“No,” the artist says, wiping her paintbrush dry on the leg of her trousers. “I’m going to keep you here until you realize you’re on an impossible mission, and you decide to give up.”

“I’m not going to give up,” Martin says fiercely. “I told you, if I fail, the person I love dies!”

The artist gathers her things back into her bag and comes around behind Martin to tighten his restraints. “Then we’re not so different after all,” she says brusquely, and leaves the room.

“Hey!” Martin calls after her. “Hey, what do you—come back!”

Her bedroom door slams shut. Martin sighs.

He can’t even see the paintings from here.

***

“Hey! Er… artist? Are you there?”

Silence.

”Artist? Can you hear me?”

Silence.

“Hello? Are you still here? I thought I would’ve seen you go out the door, but I guess you could’ve snuck out a window? I don’t know why you would, though, unless you wanted to avoid me, but it seems like you’re more the type for death glares than avoidance, so that seems unlikely. Can you come in here? Artist? Ar—”

The bedroom door bangs open. Martin startles. “Stop calling me that,” the artist says.

“You still haven’t given me your name,” Martin points out. 

“And I don’t plan to.”

“Well, I have to call you something, don’t I?”

The artist purses her lips. She looks away, seeming to deliberate for a few seconds before saying, “Fine. You can call me Basira.”

“Basira! That’s a lovely name,” Martin says eagerly. “You can call me Martin!”

“Was there something else you wanted?” Basira asks.

“Not really,” Martin admits. “Just thought some company might be nice. And, you know, whatever you’re doing… maybe you could do it in here? It might be nice, painting with an audience?”

“I’m not painting,” says Basira.

“Well, whatever it is, then?” Martin says hopefully. “It gets pretty boring out here with nothing to do.”

Basira pauses. “Sure,” she says. “I guess that’s fine. Why not?” She goes back into her bedroom and comes back with a mechanical-looking piece of metal sitting atop a box. She takes them over to the couch and pulls a few small implements from the box, starting to tinker with the interior of the metal. There are ropes wound through it, and when he leans over to get a closer look, Martin can make out some sort of wheel inside. 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

“A pulley,” Basira replies. “It’s getting worn out. I have to get it fixed up soon.”

“What do you mean?”

Basira glances up at him. “This house is in a tree,” she says. “We didn’t touch the ground once when I brought you here. You didn’t wonder how I did that?”

“I was unconscious for half that trip,” Martin points out. “And even before that, I think I was focusing more on the fact that I _did_ survive than _how_.”

Basira half-smiles. “Fair enough. Now you know, though.”

“Do I?” Martin asks. 

Basira shrugs. “It’s simple enough. I’ve got ziplines strung up through most of the forest, down the routes I usually take. Some bridges, too, and ladders so I can get down to the ground, but I usually don’t need to. It’s better to stay out of the wolf’s reach.” She gestures with the pulley in her hands. “I use this to send things over the barrier, and then people can send me things back.” She must see the surprise in Martin’s face, because she smiles wryly. “I’m not a complete hermit, you know. I can go to the barrier and talk to my family whenever I want to. I make my paintings for them, so they can sell them.”

Martin frowns. Something about that strikes him as odd, but he can’t say what it is.

“What?” Basira asks.

“I don’t know,” says Martin. “I guess I just… sorry, I didn’t realize you still had family.”

Basira pops the interior wheel out from the pulley. “Sometimes you have to leave them,” she says. “Sometimes there are more important things.”

“No, I know that,” Martin says. “I guess I’m just surprised they left _you_.”

“It’s not that bad. They couldn’t stop me from staying, and they didn’t have death wishes.” Basira reaches into the box and pulls out a small bottle. She squeezes it against the wheel, dabbing a small, glistening drop of oil over it. “You probably understand that. Sometimes your loyalties change, and it’s better for everyone if you leave the old ones. Or at least step back from them.”

“That still doesn’t mean they should abandon you,” Martin says defensively. “They’re your family! If you’ve figured out a way to live a life here, they should’ve trusted your judgement and stayed to live that life with you! It’s not right for them to abandon you like that.”

Basira studies him closely. Martin shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It always feels like she can somehow see right through him, even though he’s reasonably sure she doesn’t have the Sight, or any magical means of divining his thoughts. 

“They didn’t abandon me,” she says. “I wanted them to go. It was safer that way. And they’ve always been there, even if they’re not living in this nightmare forest with me.” She pops the wheel back into place and runs her fingers along the inner mechanisms of the pulley, testing them out. There’s a calculated pause. 

“I wouldn’t expect a faerie to have strong feelings on that kind of thing,” she says. “You lot don’t really have families, do you?”

“The Court is my family,” Martin says automatically.

“That doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

Basira snorts. “Families aren’t about serving one person and worshipping the ground she walks on. It’s about love, not duty.”

“Can’t those be the same thing?” Martin asks.

Basira winds the rope back through the pulley. “I don’t know,” she says nonchalantly. “You keep saying you’re in love. Does that feel like a duty?”

Martin pauses. “Not in the same way,” he says. “I mean, it’s not something I can walk away from, and it means there are things that I _have_ to do, but it’s… different.” Basira raises her eyebrows. Martin wracks his brains for the right words. Surprisingly enough, they come easily.

“With him, there’s no punishment if I do it wrong,” he says. “I can’t love him in a way that’s wrong.”

Basira nods. “And that’s why your Courts don’t deserve to call themselves families.”

Martin sighs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe you’re right. But I can’t change it now.”

“You don’t have to go back,” says Basira.

“Don’t,” Martin says. “I do. You know enough about faeries, you know I have to.”

Basira looks down at the pulley in her hands. She pulls the rope through it, and it glides smoothly. “You know, I never thought I’d say this kind of thing to someone like you,” she finally says, “But I don’t understand you at all.”

Martin laughs. “Is that such a surprise? I was under the impression that faeries are usually confusing.”

“No, that’s my point. You’re not. You’re a lot more…” Basira trails off. “I don’t know. You’re more like a person than the ones I’ve met.” 

Martin frowns. “Faeries _are_ people.”

“You’re a different kind of people,” says Basira. 

As much as Martin wants to argue with that, she’s right. There’s a world of difference between faeries and humans. Last summer, he would have been insulted by the notion that he wasn’t like other faeries, that he might be something closer to human. Now, he thinks that might not be so bad. 

It might even be better.


	7. Chapter 6

The next day is much like any other. Basira chats with Martin, and cooks, and disappears into the woods for long stretches of time. She comes home in the early afternoon to paint. She’s been doing a lot of painting lately, more than she did at first—Martin isn’t sure if it’s because she’s gotten comfortable with him watching, or because she doesn’t want either of them to be alone. 

Either way, it’s nice.

Martin closes his eyes after a while, listening to the soft scrape of her thick-bristled brush against the canvas. Maybe if he closes his eyes long enough, he can open them up to see a completely different picture. Maybe he could fall asleep like this. It’s not like there’s much else to do.

Just as he’s thinking so, Basira says, “Martin?”

“Hm?” Martin opens his eyes. Basira has set down her brush. She frowns at the floor for a minute, then dunks the brush into a cup of water to clean it off. “Did you want something?” Martin asks. 

Basira wipes her paintbrush off on a cloth. It leaves behind a streak of purple, adding to the faint blots of color all over the fabric.

“This person you’re in love with,” she says abruptly. “Tell me about him.”

Martin blinks. “You… really want to know?” he asks. Basira nods.

Well, it’s not like Martin would ever turn down an opportunity to talk about Jon.

Martin adjusts in his seat so the ropes are a little more comfortable. “Well, his name’s Jon. He’s human. He’s… nice?” No, that’s too generic. Martin tries again. “He takes everything super seriously. Like, if you were to tell him a joke, he’d probably have to look at you for a minute before realizing it was supposed to be a joke, and it’d be weird normally, but it’s kind of adorable when it’s him? And he’s thoughtful, and really smart in a quiet kind of way—like, sometimes he’ll just sit there concentrating, and he gets this cute little scrunch between his eyebrows, and then he’ll turn and ask a question that just knocks you right—” Martin flushes. “Sorry. Anyway. He’s lovely.”

It might be Martin’s imagination, but Basira’s expression looks a little softer than usual. “How’d you meet him?” she asks. 

“He walked into the forest looking for the Court.” Martin smiles in spite of himself. “He had no idea where he was going. It’s a good thing I found him.”

Basira narrows her eyes. “Why was he looking for the Court?”

“I’m getting to that,” says Martin. “He wanted to learn more about the fae, because…” He pauses. It feels wrong to tell Basira Jon’s entire life story; it’s too personal. “He’d had some bad experiences with them,” he says instead. “And he wanted to make some sense of it all. So Queen Eithne made me his teacher. We were together every day, and things just kind of evolved from there.”

“Wait, the Queen put you together?” Basira asks. “I thought she was threatening to kill you.”

Martin winces. “I told you this part already. I asked for her blessing, and she didn’t want to give it.” 

“Not without a price,” Basira murmurs. “It’s always about exchange with you faeries, isn’t it?”

“Usually,” Martin says with a sigh. “Things are so much easier with Jon.”

Basira just looks at him. It’s the kind of silence that seems like it’s leading up to something, so Martin waits. And waits. 

All at once, Basira stands up, goes right around Martin, and starts to undo the ropes binding him to the chair. “Wait, what?” Martin asks. “What are you doing?” Basira shushes him. 

The ropes slacken and fall. Martin slowly gets up, lifting his arms to stretch. A joint in his back pops. He unfurls his wings, fanning them out as far as they’ll go. The injured one is much better now; with Basira’s cream, it’s been healing quickly, and he can move it without pain. “Thanks,” he says. “I… don’t suppose you’re setting me free now?”

“Not a chance,” says Basira.

Martin glances around the room. Usually, Basira never lets him move around unless she’s got a weapon in hand. “Where’s my sword?” he asks. “Aren’t you trying to keep me in line?”

“If I had forgotten it, would you really want to remind me?” Basira asks, amused. “That seems counterproductive.”

“So you didn’t forget it.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Basira as she goes over to her bedroom. She comes back carrying her bag and says, “You can’t fly yet. Plus, I still have your sword, so you can’t exactly go and fight the wolf on your own. You’re safer with me than without me.” She shrugs. “I figured it can’t hurt to let you walk around free for a while.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess?” says Martin. “Can I ask why, though?”

Basira grabs her bag from the table. Once she’s slung it over her shoulder, she goes quiet, looking at Martin for a long moment. “I think there’s something you should know,” she says. 

Based on the way she’s danced around any specific details of her life every time they’ve had a conversation, Martin suspects there are many things he should know. There are many things he’s curious about, at least. He doesn’t say that, though; he doesn’t want to push her back into silence if she’s opening up. He just raises his eyebrows. 

Basira beckons for him to follow and walks out the front door. Martin trots after her. “Okay, I’m a little confused,” he says. “Is this something I should know, or something I should see?”

“It helps to see,” Basira replies. She leads him out of the house. The platform it rests on is damp from the recent rains, wooden boards wet beneath Martin’s feet. The air smells of earth and petrichor. Martin breathes in deeply. He stops to lean over the railing, but Basira motions for him to keep walking, down to the edge of the platform where a zipline is fastened to a tall tree. 

“So, what is this thing that we’re going to see?” Martin asks. “Shouldn’t we wait until nightfall? When the wolf won’t be stalking around down there?”

Basira laughs. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Martin asks.

Basira hooks a metal clip into her belt and smiles up at him.

“Because the wolf’s exactly what we’re going to see,” she says. 

“Wait, what?” Martin asks, aghast, but Basira is already pulling him over to the tree. She hooks a second clip into his belt loop, where his sword would normally rest, and gives it an experimental tug. It holds fast. “Excuse me,” Martin says. “Sorry, I might have misunderstood. Did you say we’re going to see the wolf? Intentionally?”

“Yes. There’s only one bar to hang on to, so we’ll have to go together. Wrap one arm around me like this, and grab on with the other, see?” Basira grabs the handlebar and hooks her arm beneath Martin’s wings. 

“Are you sure you can’t just tell me inside?” Martin says weakly. He mimics Basira, taking hold of the bar with one hand and her side with the other. Basira grins.

“More fun this way,” she says, and jumps off the edge of the platform. 

Martin isn’t afraid of heights. That would be stupid, given that his preferred mode of transportation is flight—but usually, he’s the one in control, and there isn’t the potential of a bloodthirsty wolf prowling around below him. He clings extra tightly to Basira as they go.

The journey is slow and disjointed, since they have to unclip and hook onto a new line every other minute, but Martin isn’t in any hurry to make it go faster. He just watches the trees pass by beneath them. After a while, he looks up, and he’s surprised to see that the briar wall is visible.

They glide straight up to it and stop on a platform built into the branches of a particularly large tree. Basira detaches her belt from the line and sits down, letting her legs dangle into the air. 

“So… are we just going to wait here until the wolf decides to wander by?” Martin asks. 

“She will,” Basira says calmly. “She always does.”

“You say that like you know, but it _is_ a wild animal,” Martin points out. “You—”

“I do know,” Basira cuts him off. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Martin sits down next to her. “I’m listening,” he says.

Basira purses her lips. She looks down at the forest below, where the thinnest branches sway gently in the breeze. The leaves cast a pattern of dappled light against the ground. She sighs, and it blends into the sound of the wind. 

“She wasn’t always a wild animal,” she says. “She was a human, once. Years ago.”

Martin stares. “What?”

“Her name was Daisy,” Basira says quietly. “And I loved her. I do love her.” 

She looks up at Martin. Usually, when she looks at him, it feels like being put under a microscope, her piercing gaze analyzing every piece of him. It’s different this time. Maybe it has been for a while. Martin isn’t sure when the change came, but now, there’s nothing special about it, nothing to make him feel pinned to the spot. They’re just two people, seeing each other, and understanding the silence that doesn’t need to be filled with explanations. 

A lot more things make sense now.

“Is that why you never left?” Martin asks softly. 

“If I did, I wouldn’t be able to come back,” says Basira. “And then I’d never be able to fix this. So I stayed.”

“What happened?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Basira asks with a scowl. “You happened, Martin. People like you.”

“Not like me,” Martin says quietly.

“Not like you,” Basira amends. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Martin. “What did they do?”

“Some poor bastard in the village made a deal with one of them,” says Basira. “He couldn’t fulfill his half of the bargain, so they took him. Things were always tense with the fae—I don’t know how your Queen runs it, but ours was always sticking her nose in our business. Like our lives were entertainment. The kidnapping was the last straw for Daisy, so she went after the faerie who did it.”

“And that faerie… made her like this?” Martin asks. 

Basira shakes her head with a wry smile. “No, she killed him.” Martin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, I know. The Queen wasn’t too happy about it. _She_ was the one who cursed Daisy. Said she should feel the pain of her own violence, let the thirst for blood consume her once and for all. And it did. So… everyone had to run. Even some of the faeries. I think they underestimated how ravenous she’d be.”

“Do you still have a Court?” Martin asks curiously.

Basira nods. “It was mostly Unseelie who left, I think.”

“Oh, that’s…” Martin trails off. Something about this entire scenario feels familiar. 

The monster, the flight of the Unseelie, the barren village. This… this couldn’t be _Annabelle’s_ home, could it?

It fits too well for it to be a coincidence. Martin’s fairly sure she had even referenced mountains when speaking of her homeland. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Thank goodness he won’t have to go off on a second grand mission to fulfill his debt to Annabelle—he can kill two birds with one stone.

Two wolves with one stone, that is. 

“What?” Basira asks.

“Nothing,” Martin says quickly, returning his focus to the conversation at hand. “Just thought of something. You’re really the only human left around here, huh?”

Basira nods, looking down at the ground. “It’s hard,” she says. “I don’t know if any of Daisy is still in there. I’ve tried to get close so many times, but she just… I don’t think she recognizes me.”

Martin’s heart twists. He can’t help but feel a pang of guilt by association—he didn’t do this to Basira, but he might have, once. He was never above playing tricks on humans who wandered into the woods. It was funny to watch them grow more and more confused or distressed, their tears completely alien, a fascinating display of emotion that he couldn’t comprehend. But he can comprehend it now, and he knows it’s not right. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s really awful.”

“It is,” Basira says gruffly. “But I’m going to fix it.”

“Do you think that’s… I mean, how long have you been trying?” Martin asks tentatively. “Do you really think there’s a way?”

“Don’t tell me you still want to kill her,” Basira says sharply.

Martin hesitates. She’s right, of course; he doesn’t _want_ to kill her. But it’s not about what he wants. It never was. He’s got two debts riding on this. 

“Are you serious?” Basira demands. “After everything I just told you?”

“I don’t want to!” Martin protests. “I just don’t know what else to do! The Queen told me I had to bring back her heart, I can’t exactly do that _without_ killing her!” 

Basira stares at him. “She told you to bring back her heart?” Martin nods. She gives him a withering look. “You’re an idiot.”

“What? Why?” 

“Faeries work in trickery,” Basira says scornfully. “Did she ever say it had to be _just_ her heart?”

Oh. _Oh._

Birch and aster, how could Martin have been so stupid?

“Oh my God, you’re right,” Martin breathes. “Oh, I’m an idiot. Basira, you said that the barrier was to keep other people out, not to keep the wolf in, right? So she could leave this area, hypothetically?” Basira nods. “Do you think it’d be possible to _trap_ her? Not to kill her, mind you, just to… move her somewhere else? Bring _all_ of her back with me?”

Basira shakes her head. “Like I said, I’ve tried to get close to her a lot of times, and it’s never ended well. You saw what happened when you tried to get a rope around her neck—you think she’d let you do that all the way back to your own Court?”

Martin grimaces. “It’s a better option than killing her, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re both non-starters. But…” Basira lets the word hang in the air, like an invitation to hope.

“But?” Martin prompts.

“But if you broke the curse, it might work,” says Basira. “I don’t know what would happen, exactly, but… if she went back to her normal self, you might be able to convince her to go with you.”

Martin’s heart leaps. “You think so?”

“It wouldn’t be easy,” Basira warns. “She always hated faeries, and even if we get her out of this, she’s probably got a worse grudge than I do at this point.”

“But there’s a chance,” Martin says hopefully. They could end all of this without any bloodshed. He could finish this task, and if Daisy was returned to her human form, the land would be safe for the faeries to come back, too. 

Basira nods, half-smiling. “I think I could convince her to come with you. I’d back you up.”

Martin smiles back. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Basira. “That…” She goes still. In an instant, she tucks her legs up to the branch and shifts a few feet over, grabbing onto another nearby branch to get to her feet. She leans over, holding one hand up to her forehead to shield from the sunlight. Martin follows her gaze. The briar wall takes up most of his vision, and the treetops fill the rest of it.

It’s the sound he picks up on first: a thumping, steady rhythm against the forest floor. There’s a flash of brown from between the trees. 

The wolf trots out into view. Its snout is pressed to the ground, snuffling along through the dirt and fallen pine needles. Its tail wags lazily behind it. Martin tightens his grip on the branch below him. The knowledge that it—that _she,_ Martin mentally corrects himself—was once human doesn’t make her any less terrifying up close.

“So how do we break that curse?” he whispers. 

Basira leans over to Martin. “You see that collar?” she asks, pointing down at the wolf. She stops at a section of the barrier, nosing at a thorny clump of brambles. The wreath around her neck looks like it's made of the very same plants. Now that Martin’s close enough, and he knows what to pay attention to, the plants _feel_ the same, too. The heady buzz of fae magic that radiates from the barrier clings to the collar as well. 

“What is it?” Martin whispers back to Basira.

“Don’t ask me, you’re the faerie. But I’m pretty sure it’s what keeps the curse alive,” says Basira. “I think I could save her if I got it off. I haven’t been able to so far, but I’ve been working on my own.”

“Now there’s two of us,” Martin says. “I bet we could do it.”

“We might. We should wait until that wing heals, though. We’ll need you at full capacity.” 

“You’re not worried about me running away, then?”

“Why should I be?” Basira asks. “We’re on the same side now, aren’t we?” She nudges him.

A smile spreads across Martin’s face.

***

“So,” says Martin. “How are we going to do this?”

“That’s a very good question.” Basira rolls out a scroll of paper and flattens it out across the table. It’s a map, noting all the land contained within the briar wall, from the village to the surrounding woods and the lake. There are red squiggles and Xs scrawled all over it. 

“These are all her normal routes. She usually hunts around this area in the mornings,” says Basira, tracing one of the lines with her finger. “And she sleeps over here, by the lake.”

“Aren’t wolves nocturnal?” Martin wonders out loud.

“Real wolves, maybe,” says Basira. 

“Right, sorry.”

“I think our best bet is to try and sneak up on her tonight while she’s sleeping. She’ll probably wake up, and it’ll be dark, which is tricky, but the element of surprise is key. How’s that wing feeling?”

Martin gives it an experimental flap. It doesn’t hurt. He tries again, harder this time, and the resulting gust of air sends the map flying off the table. Basira snatches it from the air. “That’s a good sign,” she says. “Would you be able to fly by tonight?” Martin nods. “Perfect. That’s the only way we’ll be able to get close enough to cut the collar off.”

“And you’ll keep her distracted?” Martin asks.

“ _You’ll_ keep her distracted,” Basira corrects. “You can drop me onto her back; I can take it from there. You’ll just need to keep her occupied.”

“Wait, hold on,” Martin protests. “Why am I the bait? You’re the one she knows, isn’t she less likely to, y’know, actually kill you?”

“No,” says Basira. 

“O-okay, but wouldn’t it be better if I could—”

“She won’t tolerate having a faerie near her,” Basira interrupts. “If you try it, she’ll flop onto her back and crush you. She might do it to me, too, but if you keep her distracted, she might decide you’re the more important threat. That’s why it has to be you. She won’t be able to resist chasing you, she hates faeries too much.”

“I don’t know if I like this plan,” Martin says nervously. 

“Then let’s hope she just stays asleep.” Basira picks up Martin’s sword from where it lies next to the map. “I think I’ll use this, if you don’t mind.”

“If you take it, what am I going to do if she attacks me?” Martin asks.

“You’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t catch you, now won’t you?” Basira asks with a grin. Martin swallows. She laughs. “I’m kidding, kind of. I have a crossbow you can use. It won’t kill her, but it’ll hold her off in a pinch.”

“I don’t know how to shoot.”

“Well, let’s fix that, then, shall we?”

And so, Martin is led outside and handed a bow for the first time in his life. 

He isn’t a good shot by any means. Most of his arrows glance off the tree trunks he aims for, sending chips of wood scattering through the air. He flinches every time the bow jolts in his hands. Basira tries to give him pointers, but no amount of guidance can change the fact that it’s a strange experience. Some Knights use various forms of bows, but Martin has only ever trained with a sword—and while a sword can feel like an extension of one’s own body, a graceful arc of destruction that somehow has an energy of its own, bows are colder. The shot is disconnected from its intent; the impact is only witnessed, never felt. Martin can’t think of a more callous way to kill than pulling a trigger.

By the time Martin manages to gain some semblance of control over the bow, the afternoon is darkening to evening. Basira claps him on the back. “Good enough,” she says. “She’s a big target, you could hit her if you really needed to.”

“Thanks,” Martin mumbles.

“You’re welcome. Let’s get back to the house—we can make a test flight of it.” Basira holds out her hand. 

Martin scoops her up and leaps into the air. “Woah!” she says, grabbing onto his neck. She looks down over his shoulder as the ground shrinks away. “Well, that’s new.”

“You do this all the time,” Martin reminds her. 

“I do not! Zip lines and flying are _not_ the same thing.”

“Close enough.” Martin closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of the wind between his wings. There’s a subtle note of fragility in it—his body knows that flight is a skill he’s only recently reclaimed, and it’s not quite as effortless as it normally is. He’s recovered enough to carry Basira, though. 

They make it back to the house just as the air is beginning to cool, and the sky takes on a darker shade of blue. Martin helps Basira step onto the platform, and she goes inside. She comes back out with a bag weighed down with vegetables and a pan. “Anything I can do to help?” Martin asks as she starts down the ladder. 

She waves him away. “I’ve got this,” she says as she descends. “Can you go into my room and look for a torch, though? We’ll need it later.”

Martin nods and leaves her to her work. Across the living room, her bedroom door is slightly ajar. He slips inside. 

He’s never been in her room before. There’s a bookshelf stuffed full of books against one wall, and the walls are covered in tacked-up papers—diagrams, maps, notebook pages, and some that look like recipes. Her mattress sits on the floor in the corner. Hanging on the wall over it is a painting.

It’s a portrait of a woman laying in a bed of flowers. Her eyes are half-closed, and a contented smile plays at her lips. Something about it is different from the other paintings. Where the others are all bold splashes of color, this one feels… softer. The colors are just as rich, but they’re gentler on the eyes, white and yellow petals swirling around the woman’s peachy skin and dirty blonde hair. The flowers carry the style that Martin has come to recognize from Basira’s other paintings, brushstrokes thrown haphazardly against the canvas, but the woman herself is rendered much more carefully, with tiny, stylized strokes that come together in a more realistic figure. She looks happy. The painting _feels_ happy. 

None of the others Martin has seen have felt like that.

He quickly looks away from it. It feels like intruding, somehow, even if it is hung up on display. His eyes land on her desk. It’s much neater than the rest of the room, and sitting in the corner is Basira’s torch. He grabs it and hurries out. 

“Did you find it?” Basira calls from outside.

“Yes,” Martin calls back. He brings it outside and down the ladder, to the firepit where Basira is chopping up a handful of mushrooms. They smell fresh and earthy, just like the ones Jon had brought as a gift to the Queen in the early summer. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

“Can I ask you something?” Martin asks.

“Shoot,” says Basira. Her knife thunks rhythmically against the cutting board.

“That painting in your room. Was that Daisy?”

Basira goes still.

“Yes,” she says, slightly tense, as if even one word is too much to let slip. “It still is.”

“Sorry,” Martin says quickly. “I was just curious. You made her look really beautiful, really… happy, y’know?”

“We were,” Basira says quietly. She sets the knife aside and slides the mushrooms into the cast-iron pan sitting in the fire. They hiss and sizzle. “I used to take her out to the lake, and she’d go swinging from a tree into the water, and then we’d lay in the grass until the sun dried us out again. Sometimes I’d…” She smiles to herself.

“You’d what?” Martin asks.

Basira stirs at the vegetables in the pan. “I’d…” She shakes her head, still smiling. “It sounds like a load of mush now, but we were young and in love. I’d sing to her.” 

“That’s really sweet,” says Martin. “What songs?”

Basira points her wooden spoon at him. “No. No, I see where this is going. You are not making me sing, all right? No way.”

“I wasn’t going to!” Martin protests. “I was just wondering.”

“Were you now?”

“Yes!”

“Hm.” Basira pokes at the vegetables. “Well, if that’s all. There were a lot of things, but our favorite was On a Bicycle Built For Two.”

Martin pauses. “I’m… not sure why I expected to know the names of your human songs.” It does sound vaguely familiar, though, for some reason he can’t place. Like a memory he can’t quite pull back to the surface. “Okay, I know I just said I wouldn’t,” he says, “But I feel like I might know that song. Could you…”

“I knew it!” Basira says with a jab of her spoon. “Never trust a scheming faerie!”

“Please?” Martin tries. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, I swear!”

“Fine.” Basira rolls her eyes and sings: “ _Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do… I’m half crazy, all for the love of—_ ” 

“Oh, I think I do know that one!” Martin says excitedly. “Daisy Bell! It goes, er,” he clears his throat. “ _Whether she loves me or loves me not, sometimes it’s hard to tell, yet I am longing to share the lot of beautiful Daisy Bell…_ ” 

His voice is unsteady and off-tune compared to Basira’s, but he thinks it gets the point across. “That’s it, right?” he asks.

Basira eyes him curiously. “I think so. I don’t think I’ve heard the full version before, but it sounds right.”

Now that Martin has a hold on the memory, the rest fills itself in naturally. “ _When the road’s dark, we can both despise policemen and lamps as well, there are bright lights in the dazzling eyes of beautiful Daisy Bell,_ ” he hums. “ _Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…_ ”

Basira chimes in, her voice clear and melodious. “ _I’m half crazy all for the love of you!_ ”

“ _It won’t be a stylish marriage,_ ” Martin sings. “ _I can’t afford a carriage…_ ”

“ _But you’ll look sweet upon the seat upon the seat of a bicycle built for two!_ ” they finish together. 

Basira half-laughs, a sharp exhale that stabs through the air between them and sticks there. It’s only then that Martin notices the tears in her eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, laying one hand over hers. “It’s gonna be okay, yeah? It’ll be okay.”

Basira covers her mouth with her hand and nods. She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and lets it out. 

“You’ll get her back tonight,” Martin whispers. 

Basira nods again, and her hand drops. 

“Let’s eat,” she says. “We’ve got a lot to do once it’s dark.”

***

Tonight feels colder than previous nights. The air chills through Martin’s wings as he glides silently through the trees. Maybe it’s just his imagination. Maybe it means the summer is dying, the days shortening until autumn creeps in. Maybe it’s a sign that he’s been here too long.

But he won’t be here much longer. Not if everything goes according to plan.

“Go left,” Basira whispers. Martin angles his wings and dips left. The shadows of the forest shift, and a wide plane opens between the trees—the lake. “Keep going. There’s an opening on the shore where they used to launch canoes, she likes to sleep over there.”

Martin follows the shoreline, scanning for any break in the bushes. He can see well enough in the dark, but the clumps of underbrush and brambles make it hard to pick out details. His heart is racing. Every shifting shadow could have something lurking in it. 

“There!” says Basira. Martin’s gaze lands on a stretch of the shore where the bushes have been cleared away. Curled up a short distance from the water is the wolf, breathing slowly and steadily with her tail tucked around her body. Martin slows down. “Gently,” Basira breathes. “Just set me down on her back, and let’s hope this works.”

Martin hovers down over the wolf, bit by careful bit. Once they’re close enough, Basira slides out of his grip, and Martin helps her softly land in the tuft of fur at the nape of the wolf’s neck, just behind the thorny branches of her collar. She draws Martin’s sword from its sheath.

The rise and fall of the wolf’s breathing stops.

“Go!” Basira hisses. The wolf shifts beneath her. Basira grabs onto her fur. The wolf lifts her head at once, whipping around with a growl. Her yellow eyes flash in the darkness, and Martin knows he’s been seen. 

Here goes nothing.

“Hey, look at me!” he says, waving Basira’s crossbow, and leaps into the sky. The wolf pushes herself to her feet. Martin prays that Basira can hold on. He turns and shoots into the woods. His first instinct is to flee as fast as he can, but he has to keep the wolf on his trail. He can hear her crashing through the underbrush behind him. He turns around and whistles through his teeth. “Daisy! Here I am, come and get me!”

He dives to the left, his path curving in a wide arc that sends him back towards the clearing, and puts on a burst of speed. 

Basira cries out from somewhere behind him, “Not so fast!” Her voice is nearly swallowed by a snarl. The thump of the wolf’s footsteps ceases. 

Martin screeches to a halt in midair. He turns just in time to see the wolf twisting back, biting at her side in a fruitless attempt to reach the back of her neck. Shit.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Leave her alone!” The wolf ignores him and tosses her head as if shaking water from her pelt. Basira yelps. Martin doesn’t think. If she loses her grip, it’s over.

So he aims the crossbow and shoots, just between the wolf’s eyes. 

The arrow sticks, but only for a moment; the wolf shakes her head again, and it drops to the ground. Basira falls into view, clinging onto the wolf’s collar for dear life. She swings at it with her sword. The blade cuts through one thin branch and sticks into the second.

The wolf snarls and swings a massive paw at Martin. He dodges and flaps up higher, level with the treetops. The wolf jumps, but he draws in his wings and drops like a stone, plummeting straight down between her paws. Adrenaline floods his veins as the ground rockets up to meet him. He clenches his fists and keeps his wings in tight, bracing himself—then flares them out at the last possible moment, soaring out from under the wolf. He swoops around a large tree, his heart still pounding. The wolf charges after him. 

“How’s it coming, Basira?” Martin yells, breathless. 

“I’m trying, but she’s moving so much, I can’t keep it steady!”

Martin swoops back through the trees to the clearing. Once he has enough room to maneuver, he twirls around and hovers in midair. The wolf sprints toward him. Martin’s body screams for him to move, but he holds his position. One. He can feel her breath. Two. Her mouth opens wide enough to swallow him whole, teeth bared. _Three._

Martin dives to the side, the wolf’s fangs grazing only a hair’s breadth past him. He flies around in a loop, the wolf at his heels the entire time, winding around and huffing with frustration. Martin tries to stay at the same height as he circles her. Basira has one hand on the collar now, using the other to hack through it with her sword.

Martin beats his wings to keep moving in the same circle, but the wolf stops and jumps into his path to cut him off. Martin startles. “Almost got it!” Basira yells. The wolf flicks her ears irritably. Martin tenses. He braces himself to dodge. 

The wolf plants her paws on the ground, like a dog in a play bow, and shakes her head violently. Basira shrieks. She’s thrown forward, dangling from the wolf’s collar, before another jolt tosses her back. “Basira!” Martin yells. 

“I’m—oh, _damn_ —I’m okay!” she calls, clinging to the collar. “But I dropped your sword!”

_Shit._

The wolf gets back up and paces in a circle, growling quietly. She’s getting fed up with the chase, Martin can tell. They don’t have much time. He dips down to the ground, scanning for any glint of metal in the grass. The wolf lunges. There isn’t time to dodge properly. Martin tucks in his wings and throws himself to the ground. He tumbles out of her way. As soon as he has the room, he launches back up into the sky. 

“Did you find it?” Basira shouts.

“Not yet!”

“Hurry!”

Martin swallows the panic that’s threatening to drown him. He looks all around, but the grass is one vast, dark shadow. With the wolf stalking the ground below him, it’ll be impossible to find his sword, much less grab it. 

“Basira, how close are you?” he yells.

“Almost there! But you have to hurry, I can’t—ah!” 

The wolf shifts, and Martin can see her movement before she even makes it. She’s going to roll over. “No!” he screams, and dives straight down. The wolf pauses. 

It gives him just enough time to crash onto her back and get a hold on her fur. Basira has both hands on the collar. It’s covered in slash marks, sliced down to a single branch holding it together. 

Basira looks to him, and through the darkness, understanding passes between them.

Martin grabs one end. Basira grabs the other. 

Martin wrenches his end aside as hard as he can. 

Just as the wolf drops to the ground, the branches break apart with a splintering _crack_. Martin’s momentum sends him toppling backwards—and then he’s falling, down through the open air. He flaps his wings automatically and manages to catch himself, but Basira hits the ground with a thump and a groan of pain.

“Basira!” Martin says, panicked, and swoops down to her aid.

“I’m okay,” Basira grits out. Her outline shifts as she sits up. “Where’s—where is she? Did we do it?”

Martin looks around. There’s no wolf poised to pounce on them, that’s for sure.

“Help me up,” Basira says tersely. Martin takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. She immediately pushes him aside and starts to search the clearing. “Daisy? Daisy, can you hear me?” There’s a noise of rustling fabric, a click, and a beam of light pierces through the darkness. Basira points the torch all around, waving it over the grass. 

She turns, and light flashes over a shape on the ground. Basira quickly points it back. 

A woman lies on the ground, motionless. Her shape is small and fragile against the dark grass. In the absence of the wolf’s frantic rage, the clearing has gone utterly still, as if to cradle her through her transformation. Her chest rises and falls steadily. 

“Daisy!” Basira cries. She runs to her and drops down her knees. She gently lifts Daisy’s head, cradling her in her arms. There’s a ring of bloody scratches around her neck. “Wake up,” Basira says, soft and insistent. “Wake up now, it’s over.” 

Martin keeps his distance. 

Basira shifts so she can point her torch at Daisy’s face. She lifts one of Daisy’s eyelids and shines the light directly into it. Her irises aren’t yellow anymore—they’re a watery blue, made grey by the harsh light. Her pupil contracts into a tiny black dot. Basira lets her eyelid fall.

“I’ve waited all this time for you, Daisy,” she whispers harshly. “I don’t want to wait a second longer. Wake _up._ ”

Daisy’s eyebrows twitch. The corner of her mouth curls into a tiny frown, and she squeezes her eyes shut tighter, exhaling hard. Basira gasps. Daisy squints her eyes open. “Basira?” she asks hoarsely. 

“It’s me,” says Basira, sweeping Daisy’s hair back with the utmost care. It’s much longer than it is in Basira’s painting of her, all wild locks of dirty blonde. “It’s me, I’m here.”

Daisy raises her hand and touches Basira’s cheek. “What happened?” she murmurs. 

“What do you remember?”

“I don’t… there’s so much, but I can’t… it all feels wrong, I—”

“Shh.” Basira leans over and places a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t push yourself, we can work it all out. Let’s get you home first.”

“Home?” Daisy asks blearily.

Basira looks up at Martin. “Can you carry us both, or is that too much?”

Martin winces. He might be able to carry two people on a good day, if they were all right with a slow and bumbling journey, but with his newly-healed wing, he doesn’t want to push his luck. Basira nods shortly, not needing a verbal response. “We’ll walk, then,” she says. She sits back on her heels and asks Daisy, “Can you stand?”

“N-not sure.” Daisy slowly rolls over onto her side, and Basira helps her to her feet. She doesn’t seem self-conscious about her lack of clothing—although that might just be an indication of how disoriented she is—but Martin politely averts his eyes all the same. With Daisy leaning heavily against her side, Basira starts to walk toward the trees.

“We’ll come back for your sword later,” she says as she goes. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Martin says quietly. They have more pressing concerns.

“Who’s this?” Daisy asks. 

“A friend,” says Basira. Daisy seems to accept this, and asks no further questions. 

They slowly make their way through the woods by the guiding light of Basira’s torch. Most of the walk is spent in silence. The forest feels far less sinister without the threat of a cursed wolf lurking in it. Cicadas buzz from all around, and when the branches part enough to reveal the black sky overhead, distant stars twinkle down at them. It’s like the entire forest has let out a sigh of relief, and now breathes easily, a contented peace falling over the night.

When they get back to the house, Basira ushers Daisy into her room. She looks over her shoulder at Martin, looking him right in the eye. “Thank you,” she says. “For everything.”

Martin smiles. “You know, I think that might be the first time you’ve said that to me.”

“I know,” says Basira. “They always say not to thank faeries, but… I have a real reason to now, you know? I owe you one. So if you want to claim a debt, I’d pay it off.”

“I don’t,” says Martin.

Basira’s lips twitch into a smile. “I know.”

“Please don’t feel like you have to pay me back for anything.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to help you out because I think I have to,” says Basira, rolling her eyes. “I’ll do it because you’re my friend.”

And with that, she pulls the door closed.

***

Martin wakes to the sound of low voices, muffled by Basira’s bedroom door. Bright sunlight filters in through the windows. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. Just as he’s contemplating getting up, Basira’s door swings open.

“Oh, you’re up,” she says. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Martin replies. “How’s Daisy?”

“As good as she can be, considering. I’ve been filling her in on… everything, really.” 

Basira steps aside, and Daisy appears just behind her. She’s wearing an oversized flannel shirt, her hair tied back into a messy ponytail. Dark circles hang heavy beneath her eyes, but her gaze is sharp and clear, with none of last night’s incoherence. It’s strikingly reminiscent of the way Basira used to look at him. Martin wonders if they were always a matched set, or if Basira had gotten that sharpness from Daisy.

“Hi,” says Daisy.

“Hi,” says Martin. “I’m Martin. It’s nice to meet you.”

“When I’m not trying to kill you, that is,” says Daisy. Martin pauses, unsure of how to react. Daisy clearly recognizes his uncertainty and gives him a small, apologetic smile. “Too soon?”

“Maybe,” says Martin.

“Sorry. I remember you, mostly, it’s just… filtered, I don’t know. It’s all kind of fuzzy, I’m still trying to piece things together. But Basira says you’re a friend, so.”

“I haven’t really explained why you’re here,” Basira says to Martin. “I thought you might want to tell that part of the story yourself.” She goes over to the cupboard, taking down a small box, and says over her shoulder, “I’ll make tea. You two catch up.”

Martin is left alone in the room with Daisy. He motions awkwardly for her to take a seat on the couch. She does, though she keeps an arm’s length between them. 

“So,” she says. “You’re fae.”

Martin nods. “Not local, though. From Lunaris.”

“Lunaris, that’s near…” Daisy’s brow furrows briefly, but then she shakes her head, moving on. “All right, that’s… fine.” She half-smiles. “I mean, I’m pretty sure you know how I feel about faeries, but Basira trusts you, so that’s good enough for me. And you did help.”

Martin nods again.

“So… what brought you here?” Daisy asks.

There’s the big question.

It takes a long time to work through the entire story. Daisy listens attentively, even when Martin goes off on rambling tangents about Jon and the rules of the Court and all the intertwining factors that have led him to where he is now. At some point, Basira slips mugs of tea in front of them both and sits down to listen. It’s the first time she’s heard the story in this much detail, too, Martin realizes. 

When he gets to the second task, he has to choose his words carefully. “So… I did originally come here to kill you, yes,” he says apologetically. “But I didn’t understand! I didn’t know who you were, and I didn’t realize there might be another way out yet.”

Daisy looks to Basira. “What other way out are you imagining?” she asks. 

“The Queen told me to bring back your heart,” Martin explains. “So I thought I could just bring back… you.”

“Alive,” Basira adds. 

“And willing,” says Martin. “That’s the part that depends on you, really.”

Daisy looks down into her mug of tea, frowning slightly. Martin waits with bated breath. If he’s lucky, she’ll be willing to give it a shot once she’s settled in. She’ll need time, of course, seeing as she’s only just regained her human body—

“I’ll do it,” she says, looking up at him. 

Martin blinks. He waits for her to add a caveat—”eventually,” or “soon.” But she just keeps looking at him, calm and steady. “Wait, seriously?” he asks.

“Are you sure?” Basira asks, looking just as shocked as Martin. “We can wait until you’ve recovered more, there’s no harm in—”

“I want to,” Daisy cuts in. “I want out of this goddamn forest, Basira. If I’m going to recover, I can do it somewhere else. Not here.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them.

“I can’t promise you’ll be safe,” Martin cautions. 

“What else is new?” Daisy asks, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I’d love the chance to show up a faerie Queen.”

“She might react badly,” says Basira.

“We’ve dealt with one curse already,” Daisy says with a shrug.

“Exactly. Do you really want another one?”

“The risk is still going to be there no matter when we do it,” says Daisy. She stands up, goes into the bedroom, and returns to toss Basira’s bag at her. She smiles at Martin and extends her hand.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go find that sword of yours. We might need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love being able to post a chapter on my birthday, very sexy of me
> 
> also, next week's update will be the last! i'm planning to post chapter 7 and the epilogue on the same day, so we're very close to wrapping up! get hype everybody >:D


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warning:** this chapter contains violence and a brief reference to self-harm/suicide.

By the next morning, they’re packed and ready to leave. Basira has managed to produce several hunting knives in addition to her crossbow, enough for each of them to carry, and Martin has his sword. They have food and a few flasks full of water. Martin has the map that led him to Briar Hollow, which Basira had confiscated so long ago. Looking at it feels strange. He’s only been in Briar Hollow for a couple of weeks, but he can’t shake the feeling that the town he’s leaving behind is not the same one he first arrived in.

The feeling is only amplified when they reach the edge of town. The briar wall is as towering as ever, but as they approach, something about it feels… weaker. The tingling magic that used to coat it has vanished. Now, it’s just a tangled mass of thorny plants, mostly dead or dying. 

Martin looks up. It would be easy enough to fly over it.

But instead, he draws his sword and hacks through it, slicing out an opening big enough for the three of them to walk through. 

After a brief discussion, they elect to make the journey on foot. Carrying both Basira and Daisy would be uncomfortable and exhausting, and even if he were perfectly healthy, Martin isn’t sure he could manage several full days of flying with that much extra weight. He isn’t thrilled about having to walk—now that there’s nothing keeping him in Briar Hollow, he wants to be back with Jon as soon as possible—but it’s the only way that makes sense.

So they walk. And walk. And walk.

Somehow, it’s more bearable than the flight there had been. It’s difficult for loneliness and guilt to creep in at night when Daisy and Basira are there, smiling at each other more brightly each day, as the scars of a years-long curse begin to fade. Daisy tells stories of how Briar Hollow used to be. Basira makes fun of her. Martin finds himself laughing in a way that he never really has with his fae friends. 

After days of travel, the scenery begins to grow familiar once more, and Martin knows he’s almost home. 

At night, they set up a fire to warm their hands and keep the insects away. Basira disappears into the trees to look for extra tinder. Daisy sits down on the ground next to Martin and gazes into the flames. They reflect in her eyes, making them flicker yellow-orange like an echo of the predator she once was. That’s all it is, though. Just an echo.

“How close are we?” she asks.

Martin doesn’t need to check his map. “If we make good time, we should be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. Best to get it over with, I’d say.”

Martin hesitates. “Daisy?”

“Yeah?”

“You know, if… if you’re having any second thoughts about this, I wouldn’t hold that against you.”

Daisy frowns at him. “Why would I be having second thoughts?”

“Er, because of the whole violent-and-unpredictable fae royalty thing?” 

Daisy rolls her eyes. “I know most faeries are cruel, Martin. That’s no news to me.”

Martin sighs. “It’s not even cruelty, really. She’s not invested enough for that. She just thinks this whole thing is funny.”

“I figured.”

“So aren’t you worried about what’ll happen if things go wrong?” Martin presses. “Aren’t you scared?”

Daisy sits back, resting her hands on the ground behind her. “Not really,” she says thoughtfully. 

“How?” Martin asks.

Daisy shrugs. “I’ve got Basira. I’ve got you. And I’ve got me, if it comes down to that.”

“I don’t even have that much,” Martin says morosely. “The Queen has my true Name. I won’t be able to do anything she tells me not to; that’s how it works for faeries.”

Daisy half-smiles. “If she’s got all that, then you can’t let her have your heart, too.”

“What?”

“Maybe she has physical control over you, sure. Mental control, even. But your heart is yours. It always has been. You loved Jon before you ever thought to ask her permission, didn’t you?” Daisy asks. “Your heart doesn’t belong to her, so don’t let her take it over. You have to believe in what you have.”

“I do,” Martin mumbles. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all. This is my business, not yours and Basira’s.”

“We’re happy to help,” says Daisy. 

“And if it kills you?”

“Then I can’t say I didn’t deserve it,” Daisy says quietly. “Basira told me everything I did as the wolf.”

Martin opens his mouth, but before he can respond, there’s a rustle from the trees. Basira appears with an armful of sticks. “Here we go,” she says, satisfied, and dumps a cascade of them onto the fire. It erupts with sparks as logs shift. Heat flares against Martin’s cheeks.

He closes his eyes, and he can still see the afterimage of the flames dancing behind his eyelids.

He doesn’t think any of them sleep well that night. Basira and Daisy curl up together and lay in silence, but something about their breathing isn’t quite slow enough, and Martin’s certain he isn’t the only one looking up at the stars with a heavy heart. He tries to turn his thoughts to Jon, and it’s a comfort to know that they’ll see each other again soon, but even that comfort is laced with worry. How long will they have before the Queen finds a new way to tear them apart?

Eventually, he must drift off, because when he opens his eyes, the sky is streaked with the pale pink of morning. He sits up and looks over to Basira and Daisy. They’re lying facing each other, Daisy with her arm thrown over Basira’s side. It would be a pity to wake them. They’ve had so little time to truly rest.

Martin lays back down and closes his eyes.

Ambient sounds of the forest fade in as the world begins to wake up. Birds chirp from overhead, squirrels chitter to each other. Eventually, the sounds are joined by a rustling as either Basira or Daisy sits up. Someone yawns—it sounds like Basira—and metal clinks as she opens up the buckle of her bag. 

“Morning,” Martin mumbles. He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. 

“Good morning.” Basira pulls a hunk of bread and some cheese out of her bag. “Good to see you’re awake. I assume you’ll want to head out as soon as possible?”

“Preferably.”

At the sound of their voices, Daisy opens one eye. “Are we leaving already?” she asks sleepily. 

“Not quite. Breakfast first.” Basira passes her some of the bread.

They have a quick meal, and by the time it’s fully light outside, Martin has hauled himself to his feet, and they’re off again. He can feel how close they are, like it’s calling out to something deep in his blood. He knows they’ve arrived before he even sees it—the outline of Lunaris rising up between the trees, its cottages and squat buildings wonderfully familiar. Martin speeds up in spite of himself until he’s running for the village, Basira laughing after him. 

He barely remembers to glamour his wings before he bursts through the trees and into the open. He takes a moment to drink it all in with a happy sigh, his wings fluttering behind him. It’s just as he left it—Gerry must have been serving well as its guardian. Martin will have to thank him when all of this is over. 

He turns around and waves wildly to Basira and Daisy. They jog towards him. “So this is Lunaris?” Daisy asks, intrigued. Martin nods.

“I’ll give you a full tour some other time,” he says. “Shall we?”

He leads them straight down through the center of town. They get some curious looks, but nothing major; with Martin’s glamour, they merely appear as three friends taking a morning stroll. Daisy is the curious one, really; her eyes catch on everything, and Martin can tell that if they had time, she’d want to stop and explore it all. Basira is a little quieter. As eager as he is to get into Faerie, Martin finds himself slowing down, matching her pace. “You okay?” he asks softly. 

“I’m fine,” Basira says, an odd look on her face. “It’s just… been a long time since I’ve seen this many people.”

Martin keeps his slow pace, and doesn’t remark on the way she gets misty-eyed at the small queue of people outside the bakery. “Do you want to stop and get something?” he offers.

Basira shakes her head. “I don’t want to slow us down when we’re so close. Besides, I don’t have any money.” Her smile is grateful, though, and she reaches out to give his hand a quick squeeze. 

Finally, they cross through the village and into the opposing wood. Martin can barely restrain himself from jumping into the air and flying the rest of the way, but he stays with Daisy and Basira, leading them to the tunnel into Faerie. 

“This is it,” he says, motioning at the gate of woven branches. Basira discreetly takes Daisy’s hand. “You ready?”

“Ready,” Daisy says curtly. 

Martin steps inside.

Magic soaks his senses at once, sweet as honey and heady as wine. After so much time away from his own Court, it’s almost dizzying, momentarily taking his breath away before it settles in as the gentle tingle at the edge of his awareness that he’s used to. He shakes his head to clear it and starts up the hill, Basira and Daisy trailing after him. He keeps his sword sheathed, as to not appear threatening, but it weighs heavily at his hip. He crosses his fingers that he won’t have to use it.

Daisy catches up to him and walks at his side. Basira does the same, and the three of them approach the Queen’s Court in tandem. Music floats through the air, getting louder as they draw near.

A satyr with a fiddle is playing a lively jig among the roots of the tree. A gaggle of faeries dance around the Court, trading partners and showing off their best footwork. The Queen presides over it all, smiling absently and tapping her fingers against the arm of her throne along with the beat. One faerie twirls through the middle of the crowd, followed by cheers and laughter. The dancers part just enough to cut a straight path through to the satyr with the fiddle. His gaze lands on Martin, and the music falters with a sharp squeak of his bow. 

A confused murmur rises up, until one by one, every faerie turns to look at Martin. 

The Queen does not look pleased to see him.

Martin musters up all his courage and walks straight towards her. The crowd parts immediately. He kneels down before her, motioning for Basira and Daisy to do the same. He does not bow his head.

“I have returned to you, my Queen,” he says, his voice loud and clear, “With the gift that you requested.”

Queen Eithne raises one eyebrow. “I requested the heart of a wolf,” she says coolly. “I see no such thing.”

“The Briar Wolf kneels at your feet,” says Martin. “Her curse has been broken, and she comes to you willingly, her heart beating within her chest.” He reaches out to Daisy, and she takes his hand, gripping his fingers tightly. 

“And the spare?” Queen Eithne asks, looking disdainfully at Basira.

“The breaker of the curse,” Martin supplies. “She is the reason we were able to restore the wolf to her human form.”

“Her Name?” Queen Eithne asks. 

“He won’t be giving it to you,” Basira says shortly. “We’re here for him, not me. He finished your task.”

Martin tenses. For a moment, the Queen’s expression goes cold, and his heart clenches, thinking they’ve caused offense—but she just crosses one leg over the other, tilts her head, and smiles at Basira, her eyes glittering. “Tell me then, little Wolfsbane,” she says. “Do you believe he is ready for the next?”

“Yes,” says Basira.

“Very well, then.” Queen Eithne turns to Martin. “For your final task,” she says, her smile full of thorn-sharp teeth, “Remain in my Court.” 

The world slows around Martin. All he can hear is the roar of blood in his ears and the slow thump, thump, thump of his heart as it beats to a halt. The words echo through his mind, turning over and over as their horrible significance begins to sink in. 

_What does that mean?_ he wants to ask, but he knows what it means. 

It means stay. It means lie down in the grave he’s dug himself and weep. 

It means he’s trapped. 

If he decides to remain in the Court, pledging himself once again to her service, he’ll complete the task. He’ll be free to leave, but bound not to. On the other hand, if he chooses to reject the task, he’ll fail, and be just as stuck. Either way, she won’t let him go free to live a new life with Jon. She was never going to. This is just the final step in a long game, and every scrap of hope he’s dared to give himself has led her right into her hands.

“Well?” Queen Eithne asks, her eyes shining with mirth. “Do you accept the task? Or shall we consider this whole thing finished?”

Like it makes a difference anyway. Martin bows his head and blinks back tears.

“I accept,” he says.

***

It’s all Martin can do to keep himself from breaking down as they retreat from the tree. “You’ll be fine,” Daisy assures him. “You already did two impossible things, remember? And you broke _my_ curse.”

“Yes, but this doesn’t have a convenient magical collar I can rip off,” Martin bites out. He hurries down the hill, each step falling faster and faster as the slope grows steeper, control slipping from his movements until he stumbles, his wings catching the air to prevent him from falling on his face. His face blooms hot. He flaps his wings hard to keep himself suspended, hands clenched into fists. He isn’t ready to touch back down yet. He can’t bring himself to walk all the way down to the base of the hill.

Nettle and sycamore, what is he going to tell Jon?

Basira reaches up and grabs his hand. Her touch is far too cool and soothing against the hot flush of frustration beneath his skin. Martin’s tempted to yank his hand away, but he doesn’t. “You’ll find another way out,” Basira says calmly. “You can outsmart her.”

“How?” Martin snaps. 

“We’ll figure something out.”

“ _How?_ ” Martin demands. “She got me, Basira! I got this far, but it doesn’t _matter,_ because it was all leading up to this. The last laugh. Me getting my hopes up and then failing miserably!” He tries to go on, but the words stick in his throat, choking him. “Gerry was right,” he gasps out. “I was an idiot. And I dragged Jon into it, and now—”

Basira yanks at his hand, pulling right out of the air so he crashes into her. At once, all the fight leaves him, and he crumples against her. She wraps her arms around him, and his breaths break into sobs, as jagged as shattered glass. Basira rubs her hands over his back. Daisy places a hand on his shoulder.

“How do I tell Jon?” Martin says tearfully. “I can’t tell him I failed, he’s been waiting for me—”

“So you won’t fail,” Basira murmurs. “You aren’t in this alone, Martin. We’ll fix this together.”

Martin shudders, pressing his face into her shoulder. 

“Do you need a minute?” she asks. Martin nods. “Okay. Take as long as you need.”

They stand there for a while, until Martin’s breathing slows, and his thoughts stop racing. His entire body is still heavy with the weight of the news he has to deliver, but it’s a burden he can bear.

He steps back, gives Basira a firm nod, and starts down the hill. 

The path down to the dungeons feels longer than usual. The walls cramp in around Martin’s sides. He inhales deeply, trying not to cough on the ancient dust that floats through the air, and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. The guards openly stare at him, presumably shocked to see him alive, but he doesn’t give them the time of day. He’s there for one person, and one person only.

He slowly floats up to the cage at the end of the row. 

Jon is slumped at the far wall of the cage, eyes closed. His hair has gotten even longer, hanging down past his shoulders in dull, unkempt waves, and his face is sharper than it used to be. Even in sleep, he looks exhausted.

Martin lifts his hand, fingers hovering centimeters from the iron bars.

“Jon?” he whispers.

Jon’s eyes snap open. He blinks hard, sitting up with some difficulty. “Martin?” he says hoarsely. “Is that really—you’re back?”

“Yeah, Jon,” Martin whispers back, his eyes beginning to sting once again. “It’s me, I’m back.”

Jon scrambles forward and shoves his arms through the bars, cupping Martin’s face in both hands. “It really is you,” he says, his face splitting into a wide smile. “I was so worried, I thought—”

“I’m okay,” Martin says, putting his hand over Jon’s to keep it close. “What about you, are you all right? You look…” He trails off. Jon grimaces.

“It’s not fun down here,” he says. “Especially when… Well, I thought…” A pained look crosses his face. “How long were you gone? They never told me, but it felt so long, I thought maybe you’d…”

“No, never,” Martin says. “I promised I’d come back for you.”

“I didn’t know how long it would be,” says Jon. “I mean, timeframes are always different for fae. A year would be nothing to you. And that’s without all the magic in this place.” He shudders. “I thought even if you did come back, I might be waiting forever.”

“I’m so sorry,” Martin whispers. “You still have your seeing stone, right?”

Jon holds it up wearily. “Haven’t lost my mind yet,” he says. “I suppose I’ll need to hang onto it for however long this third task takes.”

Martin can’t help it. He winces ever so slightly. Jon pauses, and his brows draw together in concern. “Martin?”

“I have something to tell you,” Martin bursts out. 

“Go on,” says Jon, looking more nervous by the minute.

“I finished the second task, so she gave me the third,” Martin says. “And it’s…” He swallows hard. “The task was to remain in the Court, Jon.”

“You… what?” Jon shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s supposed to be a trap,” Martin says unhappily. “So that whether I complete the task or not, I’m still bound to her.”

Jon stares at him. 

And then he starts to laugh. Quietly at first, then louder, verging into hysteria. He leans against the bars of the cage, his shoulders shaking.

“Jon?” Martin asks, worried. 

“Of course it’s a trap,” Jon says. “It all is. But for you, it’s a metaphorical one, while I’m still sitting here in a goddamn _cage_ , so you’re just going to have to figure something out!” His voice raises into a snarl. “You don’t know what it’s like down here! I’ve been stuck waiting this entire time, not knowing what you were doing or where you were, not knowing if you’d ever come back—I can’t _do_ that again!”

Martin doesn’t back away, but his chest wrenches to see Jon like this, breathing heavily, bleeding out anger and pain. “I’m so sorry,” Martin says miserably. “I’m doing everything I can, Jon—”

“I know,” Jon groans. He sits back, rubbing his hands over his face. “I know,” he says, much quieter. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

Martin’s heart pounds. He doesn’t want to voice the thought that’s clawing through his mind, but he has to. If Jon is unhappy, he has to.

“Do you regret it?” he asks in a small voice. 

Jon sighs heavily. 

“No,” he admits. “God, I—I’m sorry, Martin, I don’t mean to take this out on you, it’s just—”

“No, it’s okay,” Martin says softly. “I understand.” 

“If we manage to survive all this, it’ll be worth it. But next time… for this task, will you let me help?” Jon pleads. “I want to know what’s going on, I don’t want to be just sitting here, useless. I want to help you this time.”

Martin breathes a sigh of relief. “Of course,” he says. “I can’t do it on my own—I wouldn’t. I want you to help me. And… it won’t be just you helping, this time.” He looks down to Basira and Daisy, who are waiting on the ground below. “I met some people during the last task,” he says. “Jon, this is Basira and Daisy.”

Jon peeks out through the bars. Daisy waves. “Oh God, that’s embarrassing,” he says under his breath. “You could’ve told me there were other _people_ here, Martin—”

“I was getting to it,” Martin says guiltily. 

Jon huffs, and looks down at Basira and Daisy. “You’re both human, aren’t you?” he asks. 

“Only as of last week,” says Daisy. Basira elbows her. She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Martin’s been in good hands. We won’t let him do anything stupid.”

“But that does raise the question,” says Basira, “of what we _are_ going to do.”

Jon adjusts so he’s sitting down properly and crosses his legs. “Well,” he says. “I’m certainly open to any suggestions that involve no one dying.”

***

Several hours later, they’re still stuck in the dungeon shooting ideas back and forth.

“We could have you ‘remain’ for like, five minutes, and then leave,” Daisy suggests. “That counts, right?”

Martin shakes her head. “Time doesn’t have much meaning here. If she says remain, there’s implied permanence in it.”

“We could give her a lock of your hair, or something like that?” Jon offers. “It’s a piece of you, at least.”

Martin wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think she’d take that. That doesn’t feel… substantial enough.”

“What about your Name?” asks Daisy. “What’s more substantial than a Name? You could just leave her with that and be done with it.”

Martin winces. “She’d still have power over me that way, though…”

“She’s going to have power over you whatever you do. She’s not going to magically forget your Name once you run off with Jon,” Daisy points out.

“Does staying in the Court have to mean the actual Court?” Jon wonders. “Or could it refer to all her territory? Maybe if you stayed in the area around Lunaris, it’d be all right?”

Martin shakes his head. “There’s no end date for that kind of thing. She’d never have a reason to say the task was complete.” He sighs, reclining in midair as if leaning back in an armchair. “She wants me to give up.”

Daisy groans. “Where’s Basira when you need her? She’s the smart one, I bet she could think of something good.”

Basira had stepped out earlier to look for a place in Lunaris where she and Daisy could stay. Martin had offered them both a place in his own home, but Daisy had been noticeably uncomfortable with the prospect of lodging anywhere near Faerie, so Lunaris is their second-best. It’s been several hours, and there’s still no sign of her.

“She’d better be finding the most comfortable inn they’ve got,” Daisy sighs. 

“We can ask her whenever she gets back,” says Jon. “In the meantime…” He frowns. “Actually, that’s silly, nevermind.”

“What was it?” Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head, embarrassed. “Oh, I was just thinking… since Names are a representation of who you are, and that tree is the center of Eithne’s Court, we could carve your name into the tree? It’s certainly permanent enough, but—”

“But I don’t own my own Name anymore,” Martin says glumly. “I don’t even remember what it was.”

“Yes, I figured she wouldn’t allow for that sort of thing.”

“It was a good idea, though,” Daisy assures him. “One of the best we’ve had.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to see if Basira can come up with anything better.”

But Basira doesn’t show up. Eventually, Martin and Daisy have to go and eat lunch. Martin returns to the dungeon, while Daisy goes off to look for Basira, but when it’s just him and Jon, the ideas don’t seem to flow as freely. Martin keeps him company for a while, then goes home. _Home_ being the operative word, of course. He has a house. He has a tree. He has a village and a Court, but returning to them no longer feels like sanctuary. 

Martin finds a place to sit among the branches of a tall tree and closes his eyes.

It’s hard to imagine staying in the Court when, in his heart of hearts, it feels like he’s already left.

***

The following days are much of the same. Sitting in the dim light of the dungeon, spouting off more and more ridiculous ideas, repeating ones they’ve already come up with only to remember why they were shot down. Trying to find new ways to talk around the growing weight in the air. The knowledge that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a problem they can think their way out of.

Half the time, their little group is one member short, as Basira is off doing errands in Lunaris. Apparently, she and Daisy might stay. “After all this is sorted out,” Basira says, with a smile that’s probably meant to be comforting, but just makes Martin’s chest constrict. 

He can’t bear to see the fear growing behind Jon’s eyes. He can only imagine what Jon sees in his. 

When it all gets to be too much, he sits alone in his cottage, turning his sword over in his hands and trying not to think. He never used to like being cooped up inside during the summer, but now, he prefers it to the exposure of the outdoors, where any passing faerie could see him in his misery and snicker at the woeful faerie who thought his Knighthood could ever be resigned. 

Martin turns his sword over and over in his hands, and thinks so hard it makes him sick. 

He has to stay with Eithne. Some part of him, something pure and true and representing his very soul, must remain. 

He’d rejected Jon’s idea about a lock of hair, but he thinks he knows something that might work better.

Slowly, Martin flips the hilt of his sword over, and holds out his arm beneath the blade. He breathes in deeply and lets it out again. The presence of iron so close to his bare flesh makes his heart race, some animal instinct overtaking him, screaming at him not to let it touch. But blood is powerful, and blood drawn with a blade of iron, infused with his own particular fae spirit? It’s just about the most powerful thing Martin can think of. If he could just bring the blade _down_... 

The door bangs open. Martin startles violently. “What the hell are you doing?” Basira demands.

“Nothing,” Martin says blankly. He drops the sword onto the table. Basira stalks up to him and grabs it, looking incredulously back and forth between it and Martin.

“I cannot believe you,” she says. “I leave you alone for five minutes and it comes down to _this_? Christ, Martin, I know you don’t want Eithne to kill you, but that’s no reason to do it _yourself_ —”

“That’s not what I was doing!” Martin says weakly. “Not at all—willow and juniper, Basira, I wouldn’t!” 

Basira narrows her eyes. “Then what _were_ you doing?”

“Er,” says Martin. “I was just going to. Draw a little blood? You know, I thought if I gave that to her, it might be enough—”

“And what the hell made you think that?”

“Blood’s powerful!” Martin says defensively. “It’s always had a big role in magic, and you know what iron does—if I bled the magic out of me and handed it to her in a little bottle to keep, don’t you think that might qualify? Since the _essence_ of me would be staying with her?”

“I think that’s an awfully big risk for you to take without knowing for sure,” says Basira. “Especially when you have another option.”

“What other option?”

Basira looks at the sword, looks at him again, and takes it with her as she walks back to the front door. She leans out, grabs something, and comes back carrying a large flat rectangle covered in cloth. She hands it to him.

“Didn’t you wonder why I was gone?” she asks.

Martin lifts the cloth away. 

His own face beams back up at him. He’s made soft and radiant by Basira’s usual style, with tiny strokes of detail shaping the planes and angles of his face, and larger paint-smear flowers dotted into his dark hair. It’s fairly simple, but there’s life in the matte colors, like a light shining straight through the canvas. 

Is this how Basira really sees him?

He wouldn’t have expected it to be so beautiful.

“That’s the first portrait I’ve done since Daisy’s,” Basira says, a quiet note of pride in her voice. “I think I captured you pretty well.”

“You did,” Martin says softly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” says Basira. “Now you have something to give Eithne.” 

“You think it’ll work?” Martin asks. “Is it… I don’t know, is it _me_ enough?”

Basira pauses. “I think… sometimes it’s about more than blood, or oaths, or any of that,” she says slowly. “If you’re looking for a way to really capture who you are, you have to let someone else do it. You have to let them see you.” 

She gently takes the canvas back, as well as Martin’s sword from where it sits on the table.

“That painting isn’t just you,” she says. “It’s love for you. That’s even more powerful.”

Martin’s body doesn’t feel big enough to contain the gratitude that blooms inside his chest. He smiles, falteringly, as if it’s only okay to process a little bit of affection at a time. For a moment, he feels almost like the painting: he loves Basira and Daisy and Jon so fiercely it aches, and they love him, too, so much that it’s become an intrinsic piece of him, a comforting warmth that settles within his ribs. 

“Come on, then,” Basira says, businesslike as usual. “Let’s go deliver this to the Queen.”

She sticks out her hand, and Martin takes it willingly.

***

Martin keeps a tight grip on his sword with one hand and the painting with the other. The sun sets off beyond the mountains, crawling down away from him as he walks up the hill. The sky blazes with fierce crimson and orange, like the sun is putting up one last fight, one final and brazen attempt to burn its way through the clouds before it succumbs to the night. It feels like an omen.

Martin’s lips are still tingling from his last kiss to Jon’s knuckles. “I’ll see you soon,” he’d whispered. Because whether or not this works, he will—he just hopes it’s with good news, and not a death sentence.

“Maybe you’d have been better off leaving me as a monster wolf,” Daisy mumbles as they approach the tree. 

“Shut up,” Basira mutters. “It’ll be fine.”

The Court is quiet tonight. There is no music, only the quiet murmur of voices, as small groups of elves and faeries lounge among the tree roots, telling stories. The sight of it sends a pang through Martin. That was him, once upon a time, and some part of him still wishes it could be again. It’s strange, how even after risking his life to escape this place, he still finds himself drawn to it.

He passes through the Court, past familiar faces and names. One looks up—Gerry, sitting on a knotted root and carving into it with a long knife. Martin slows his pace, letting their moment of eye contact linger.

Gerry half-smiles, and nods to him. 

Martin nods back, and with Basira and Daisy flanking him, he walks right up to the Queen. 

“Queen Eithne,” he says. “I have brought you a gift. I hope it will be enough to satisfy your will that I remain in this Court with you.”

He holds the painting up to her.

Eithne slips from the edge of her throne, dragonfly-like wings fluttering behind her, and alights gently in front of Martin. He takes a reflexive step back. She’s much taller than him even without the throne to elevate her. She takes the painting, looking it over critically.

“Well?” Martin asks tentatively.

“The work is beautiful,” Eithne murmurs, running her fingers along it. 

Martin hardly dares to breathe. “So, does that mean…”

Eithne smiles. “That I would permit you to abandon my service?”

Martin doesn’t reply.

“Of course not, young one,” she says. “I told you to stay with your Queen. I will accept no substitutes.”

Martin’s stomach lurches. “And—and what if I won’t?” he asks. He’s failed—there’s no reason to stay polite with her. He’ll never accept her terms, and there are surely only seconds before she ends him. “What if I won’t stay?”

“Then there will be consequences, of course,” Eithne says pleasantly. “You know this. You were warned.” She pauses to admire the painting. “But I have always been fond of the arts, and I must admit… this piece is quite beautiful. It would be a shame to destroy the muse.”

Martin’s heart pounds. His palm is sweating against the hilt of his sword. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Eithne continues as if he never spoke. “You need not die for your transgressions,” she muses. She snaps her fingers. “Imprisonment, then. A term of one hundred years or so, or until you have outgrown the folly of mortal love and are ready to return to my service.”

Martin’s mouth goes dry. “I…”

“What is it, young one?” Eithne holds out the painting, and a sprite zips to her side to scoop it up. She bends down, smoothing one hand over Martin’s hair with a smile that might be described as pitying, if one were being generous. “I can’t allow you to go unpunished now, can I? You are one of my Knights, my beloved courtiers! Once you have learned from all this, you will be welcomed back home with open arms.”

“Beloved?” Martin says incredulously. He can’t stop himself. His heart still pounds, and each beat feels more furious, the sweet condescension in her expression drawing out a bubbling rage from deep within him. “ _Beloved?_ ” he demands. “What would _you_ know about love?”

“Far more than you,” says Eithne. “I know of patience and generosity. I have seen the turn of countless seasons, and I know the fate you would assign yourself, loving a mortal. I would help you avoid this fate. I would _save_ you. Do not take my generosity so lightly.”

“It’s my choice!” Martin argues. “It’s not _generosity_ to steal that from me! You think—” He makes a frustrated noise. “You’ve never loved me, you just want to control me!”

A gasp ripples through the Court. Martin looks around to see his fellow fae shaking their heads, eyes wide with concern. Several have retreated, as if there’s any safe distance if he manages to piss Eithne off. 

But Basira and Daisy stand tall. Basira nods to him, her brow set in determination.

Martin turns back to Eithne, breathing heavily. 

“Bold words,” Eithne says, her voice low and dangerous. “Foolishly bold.” She raises her hand again, and the sprite who retrieved the painting appears again. “Be a darling and fly on down to the dungeon,” Eithne says to her. “It’s been far too long since the Archivist has graced our Court with his presence.”

Martin’s heart seizes. “Wait,” he says. “Wait, I—”

“Silence,” Eithne says swiftly. Her voice rings out with magic, and Martin chokes on air. When he tries to speak, his throat tightens, words stolen before he can even speak them. 

“Hey!” Basira barks. “Leave him alone!”

“And you as well,” Eithne snaps. “I do not recall inviting you into my Court, so I would advise you not to push the boundaries of my hospitality.” She turns back to Martin.

“Kneel,” she says. It feels like Martin’s legs are kicked out from under him—his knees buckle, and he hits the ground hard. He makes to get up again, but an immense pressure weighs down on him from above, forcing him into place. 

“You forget yourself,” Eithne hisses. “Martin Blackwood, Knight of the Seelie Fae, Guardian of Lunaris, He Who Sought Belonging, you have pledged yourself to _me_.”

Martin gasps and falls forward onto his hands. The invocation of his Name is a shockwave that goes straight through his very being, like she’s reached into his chest and taken his heart in a vice grip. It’s been so long since he’s heard it out loud. Seasons. Decades. Long enough to forget how it sounds piercing the air, an arcane call that resonates through his bones like the strike of a tuning fork. 

His head spins. He stays there, dizzy and huddled on the ground, until the echoes begin to fade and the enchantment relaxes. He sits up, hands trembling. 

Jon stands before him, hands bound behind his back, with an elf guard on either side. “Hello,” he says, his voice weak and shaky. “I, er… I assume this is the bad ending, then, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Eithne says coldly. She snaps her fingers, and Martin is yanked up to his feet again, like a marionette pulled by the strings. “I see you’ve brought a weapon,” she says, casting a disdainful look at the sword in Martin’s hand. She jerks her head to Jon.

“Kill him.”

Martin freezes.

His heart is beating so fast it almost feels like a separate part of him, a distant reminder of what’s at stake. His thoughts race, turning uselessly until it all goes blank, any leftover wits washed away by terror. It’s a luxury to stand here in shock, he knows. She hasn’t commanded him—not yet. When she does, he’ll be helpless to disobey. This is only a test, and one he is doomed to fail, because…

“No,” he says faintly. 

“What was that?” Eithne asks, just as quietly.

“No,” Martin says, more forcefully this time. “I-I won’t. I won’t do it.”

Eithne smiles. “And how, pray tell, do you suppose you will stop yourself?” She tilts her head. “You are out of choices, Martin. So perhaps we should give the choice to someone else.”

She looks over at Jon. “I believe you still owe me a favor,” she says. “If this one is too much of a fool to make the decision, I will leave it to you. Fulfill your debt to me. Leave this place, and never come back. You will both be spared.”

Jon stares back at her with wide eyes. He looks to Martin. Martin shakes his head. 

Jon swallows hard. “I won’t,” he says. 

Eithne hisses through her teeth. “Ungrateful,” she says. “The both of you. You clearly misunderstand how things _work_ here. You cannot run, you cannot fight. You have simply failed, and now, the only thing left to do is _submit._ ”

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by a voice from behind him.

“No,” it says.

Eithne’s eyes flick up, and her eyebrow twitches with irritation. Martin turns around.

Gerry is standing beside Daisy and Basira, knife in hand. The rest of the Court has backed away, except the members of the royal guard, who stand with their swords close by. Gerry glares up at Eithne. “You’re wrong,” he says. 

“About what?” Eithne demands.

Gerry locks eyes with Martin. “He _can_ fight,” he says. “And I bet you he could win.”

“I will not stand for this insubordination,” Eithne snaps. “I’ve already been too kind to you!” 

She raises her hand. Gerry looks to Martin, eyes wild with urgency, and Martin doesn’t think. He doesn’t plan. He draws his sword. 

He leaps for the guards flanking Jon.

The one on the left pulls out his sword just in time, his blade crashing against Martin’s with a metallic clang that echoes through the Court. The one on the right jumps away, only for Gerry to tackle him to the ground. There are gasps and screams from the surrounding courtiers. The guard slashes at Martin.

Martin parries it with a step backwards, risking a glance at Jon. Basira and Daisy are at his side, undoing the ties around his wrists. The guard swings at Martin and makes a neat slice through his shirt. His sword barely grazes Martin’s skin. Martin scrambles back.

“Seize them!” Eithne shrieks.

The royal guards on the side of the Court jump into action. Martin’s hands are numb with panic. “Don’t worry, we’ll hold them off!” Gerry yells. He’s wrestled the sword from the other guard’s hands. He tosses it to Jon, who catches it and falls into a ready stance, the same one Martin had taught him when the only thing they had to fear was the sunset. 

The sun is setting now. But Martin doesn’t have time to be afraid.

He throws himself at the guard with all his might. The guard stumbles. Martin catches him in the wrist and knocks his sword out of his hand, sending it flying. He winds up and punches him as hard as he can. The guard doubles over and staggers back. Martin turns around, brandishing his sword, and points it at Eithne.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Eithne seethes.

“Try me,” Martin snarls.

Eithne throws out her hand, and a sword flies straight into it. She points it at Martin, and they circle each other, each both predator and prey. “I could end you in a heartbeat,” she says. “One command, and you would slit your own throat.”

“Then why don’t you?” Martin challenges.

“Because it will be so much more entertaining to see you fail without any help,” says Eithne. 

Martin doesn’t wait for her.

He strikes hard and fast, whipping his sword at her. She blocks and twirls her blade through the air. Martin jumps to the side as she stabs it downwards. He tries to dart into range, but she swings her sword in a wide arc. 

He stumbles, catching himself on his toes before he can run straight into it. Eithne laughs. 

“I gave you a home, you know,” she says. “I never thought you would be so foolish as to reject it. My mistake.” She dances toward him. Martin swings at her. She parries and strikes back. Their swords flash in the dying light. 

Martin pushes forward, knocking away her fancy swordplay. He throws more energy into each slash, their blades colliding with enough force to rattle his teeth.

“This isn’t my home,” he grits out. “It never was.”

“You think so?” Eithne asks. She feints to the side and takes a swing. Martin dodges. She adjusts her grip, and he springs to the side in anticipation of a second blow, only for her to spin around and slice at an angle. 

Her blade bites into his thigh. It sears through his flesh and blazes with agony that goes beyond the physical. It’s like a lightning strike through his very core. Martin is briefly dizzy with it, but he doesn’t drop his sword. 

“This is exactly _why_ I’m not staying here!” he chokes out. Shit. He can’t put much weight on his leg. He leaps into the air and knocks into Eithne. She staggers back, and in her moment of weakness, Martin swipes across her face, leaving behind a trail of silver blood. Eithne snarls, enraged.

Before he can retreat, she drives her blade into his shoulder. 

Martin’s breath sticks into his throat, and turns to a ragged cry as she yanks it out again. He clutches the wound and backs away. Eithne floats up to meet him. “If you wish to live like a human, then die like one,” she hisses. She shoves him backwards. Martin blocks her sword and struggles to keep her at bay, his blade wobbling with the force she presses against it. 

His grip slips. Metal scrapes metal. Eithne smacks her sword into his once again with a clang that pounds into his skull. Martin shakes his head to clear away the dizziness. Eithne catches him in the chest, knocking him off balance. His wings beat wildly in an attempt to right himself. Before he can, pain blossoms fierce and stinging across his face. Something hot and wet drips down his cheek.

“Now we match,” Eithne says vengefully. Her sword flashes. Martin barely manages to roll out of the way in time. There’s blood in his eye. The wound in his leg burns, like she’s stuffed hot coals beneath his skin. With every passing second, the heat builds. He can feel the magic leaching from the wound along with his blood. It drains him, leaving his body heavy and slow to react.

Eithne raises her arm. Martin dodges too late. Pain erupts in his side. She grins triumphantly and goes in for a second blow. 

Martin angles his wings and dives for the ground. 

His feet hit the dirt hard, and he has to catch himself on his hands. He glances up. It feels like a miracle that no one has come to Eithne’s aid by now—but when he looks, it becomes less of a mystery. 

Most of the courtiers have fled by now. They aren’t equipped for battle. Given that it’s still summer, with no encroaching Unseelie threats, the royal guard’s numbers are thankfully small—several are already lying unconscious on the ground, while the remainder are locked in combat with Martin’s friends. 

Basira is grappling with a short faerie, his sword nowhere to be seen. Daisy has one caught in a headlock. Gerry is covered in blood, though Martin can’t tell whose it is. He’s gotten a sword somewhere—two, in fact, wielding one in each hand to fight off the two faeries who’ve ganged up on him.

And Jon.

Jon is circling around another guard in a tense stand-off. Neither appear to have weapons, but both are wounded—Jon’s shirt is stained with red that’s most definitely not from a faerie. He’s holding his own, though. He’s alive, at least, and that’s a damn sight better than most humans would do fighting a trained fae Knight. 

Over her shoulder, his gaze lands on Martin. His eyes widen. “Martin, look out!” he shouts.

Martin whips around and raises his sword just in time to catch Eithne’s as she swings down at his head. 

“You can do this!” Jon yells to him. 

“Yeah, you can take her!” shouts Daisy.

Eithne sneers, hovering a few feet over him. She rolls her wrist, blood dripping from her sword, and opens her mouth for some snarky comment or another. Martin doesn’t give her the chance to make it. He dips around behind her, leaps up, and— 

His blade slices through her wing like paper. It cleaves from her back and falls, floating back and forth like a feather. Her scream splits the air. It pierces deep into Martin and chills him down to the bone. Eithne drops to the ground. Martin’s arm lingers in the air for one precious moment, poised to strike again.

Eithne slowly turns, with murder in her eyes.

“Enough,” she growls. 

Her voice resonates like the low toll of a bell. Martin can practically feel it pulse through the Court. He freezes in place. His muscles are locked, powerless to attack or defend himself. The only thing he can move is his hand, and it’s completely involuntary—even as he fights against it, his fingers loosen around the hilt of his sword, and it falls, landing somewhere behind Eithne. 

“Down,” says Eithne. 

Martin’s wings snap tight to his back. He plummets to the ground and lands on his feet, straightening automatically into a rigid posture. He can’t move his hands. He can’t move any part of himself. His mind is screaming obscenities, but his face is immobile. He can feel the blank obedience that’s overtaken his expression, and it’s almost the worst part.

But the real worst part is Jon, standing over the limp body of a faerie and staring at him in horror.

“Kneel,” Eithne orders. Martin’s knees hit the ground. He looks up at her, mute, and channels as much rage as he can into his eyes alone. 

At this moment he becomes certain, for the first time, that he would kill her if he could.

He hopes she knows it.

“As a ruler, I do not often make mistakes,” Eithne says. “But I regret indulging you this far. You have brought me nothing but annoyance and disrespect.” 

The few remaining guards have stopped fighting. They stand with Martin’s friends, all watching with bated breath. Jon moves forward. Martin tries to signal to him to go back—he can’t protect him, not like this—but he keeps slowly approaching, step by silent step.

Eithne lays the tip of her sword on Martin’s shoulder. “Any last words?” she asks. “Speak now, or… I’m afraid you won’t get the chance to.”

Martin inhales raggedly. His throat relaxes, and the tight pressure of magic around him lessens. Without its weight bearing down on him, he can barely keep himself upright. He feels woozy and dazed. There’s blood running all down his clothes. His eyelids are heavy, and if he were to let them slip shut, he’s not sure if he would open them again. He aches to give in to it, to rest on the grass of the clearing and let the last of his energy wash away.

But he keeps his eyes open, if only to watch Jon draw nearer.

“I don’t need you anymore,” Martin spits.

Jon closes in on Eithne, his eyes locked on her back.

“The feeling is mutual,” says Eithne. She transfers her blade to Martin’s other shoulder, as if to reverse his Knighthood. “Martin Blackwood, I hereby sentence you to—”

She never finishes the sentence.

Jon jams Martin’s sword straight through her back. She gasps. He forces it in further, and her eyes bug out of her head as the tip of the blade rips through her chest. Silver blood soaks her dress. She looks down, touching the wound gingerly. Her chest heaves like she’s going to vomit, and she coughs up a mouthful of blood, silver dripping over her lips. 

Martin feels it before he sees it. The enchantment on him lessens even further, invisible chains melting away, until he can sit back and breathe freely.

Eithne teeters over, and collapses in a heap on the ground.

Jon stands over her, looking mildly sick. His hands hover at his sides like he’s not sure where to put them. He’s alive.

By the first spring blossoms, they’re alive. And the Queen is dead.

The silence is deafening.

After a long, lingering moment, it’s broken by the slow sound of someone clapping. Martin startles and looks to the source. It’s Gerry, standing off to the side, awestruck. Basira and Daisy look just as shocked.

“Holy shit, you really killed her,” Basira says.

“They did,” says Gerry. “And that means…”

Martin’s heart stops.

“Long live Jonathan Sims,” Gerry breathes. “King of the Seelie Fae.”

Grey dots swim at the edges of Martin’s vision. He’s dimly aware that he is in pain. He sways, and someone cries out his name, but he’s already on the ground, eyes slipping shut. 

They’ve won. He’s succeeded. They’ve finished it.

He can rest now.

***

Martin’s arms are cold. Freezing, actually. They’re almost numb, though he can still feel the weight of his clothes clinging oddly to his skin, almost… wet? His skin is wet. 

He opens his eyes, and immediately winces at the flare of a lantern. The orange light is in sharp contrast to the darkness of his surroundings. He appears to be submerged in water, but he can’t see much else.

“Careful of his head, you’ll drown him,” someone mutters.

“He said to do it quickly!” someone else snaps. “How long is this supposed to take, anyway?”

“I-I don’t know,” a third voice stammers. “I’ve only had to do it once, and it wasn’t very bad—”

“Just keep him under,” someone sighs. “And keep pressure on the wounds, for God’s sake, won’t you?” 

Martin opens his mouth to speak, and immediately gets a mouthful of water. He splutters and coughs it out. “Shit, he’s awake!” someone says. “Help him up!”

Someone grabs the back of his head and helps him sit up. Martin keeps coughing, but through it, he can catch his breath. “What’s happening?” he wheezes. “Where am I?”

“By the waterfall,” says a voice. “I-I knew it had healing properties, so I thought it would be our best option.”

Martin focuses in on the voice. His head is clearing up more and more every second. He has a splitting headache, and various other pains are beginning to make themselves known, but the fog is dissipating from his mind. 

Jon stares back at him anxiously. 

“Oh my God,” Martin breathes. 

It all comes flooding back. The fight, Jon, the _Queen_ —she’s dead. The memories make him dizzy all over again, and he almost slips down into the water before Jon catches him. “Are you all right?” Jon asks. His arms are warm. Martin leans into him without thinking.

“My head hurts,” he mumbles. “And… everything else, actually.” He looks down at his shoulder. He remembers Eithne stabbing him—the wound is still there, but it’s much smaller, and growing lighter by the minute. 

“You’ll be fine,” says one of the other voices, which Martin now recognizes as Gerry. He’s sitting on the edge of the bank, grinning at Martin. “Your boy’s a quick thinker. We all thought you were fucked, but he had us rush out here, and,” he spreads his hands, “here we are.”

“How did you know to come here?” Martin asks, dazed.

“You showed me, remember?” says Jon. “In the beginning of summer. We were here, and I cut myself, and you showed me how to heal it.”

A memory of Jon slipping into the river flashes through Martin’s mind, and he laughs weakly. Jon smiles back at him. 

“Mind you, your injuries are a _bit_ more serious,” Gerry says dryly. “But it should be fine.”

“Yeah, I think so. It’s starting to hurt less, at least.” Martin holds out his arms to Jon, and Jon helps him pull himself up into shallower water. Daisy pats his shoulder.

“Glad to hear it,” she says. “You had us worried there for a second.”

“It would’ve been worse if you all weren’t there,” Martin says honestly. “What about you, are any of you hurt?”

“Nothing the waterfall couldn’t fix,” says Jon. Now that Martin’s paying attention, he does appear to have a few faint cuts remaining in his arm, and Basira is still holding a nasty scratch under the water, but while they all seem shaken, no one is seriously injured. 

“Thank you,” Martin says. “You didn’t have to risk your lives for me.”

“Please,” Daisy scoffs. “Did you see how easy those bastards went down? We weren’t risking anything.”

Martin ignores her and looks at Gerry. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Gerry mutters.

“What changed your mind?” Martin asks. “About helping me?”

Gerry goes quiet, swirling his fingers through the water. “I wanted to see someone else win for once,” he says. 

He doesn’t go on. He doesn’t need to. There are still a lot of things about him that Martin doesn’t understand, and possibly never will, but he understands enough. Besides, this is the closest Gerry ever gets to an actual apology, so—

“I’m sorry,” says Gerry. 

Martin blinks. “I—what? No, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. I was an ass to you, and I’m sorry. You were right about Eithne. Even if she was trying to protect you—even if _I_ was—that’s not my choice to make.” Gerry stares down into the water. The flickering light of lantern casts his face in shades of orange. “Just because it’s safer to let something go doesn’t mean it’s better to,” he says softly. 

He withdraws his hand from the water and glances up at Jon. “That reminds me. I wanted to ask—I know the past few hours have been, er, a lot, but do you still have that seeing stone?”

“I—yes I think I should,” says Jon. He pauses. “I’ve… actually been meaning to ask you about that.” He looks down into his hands, lost in thought. 

“When I was a child, I had a seeing stone that looked just like that one,” he says. “I lost it in the woods, but I was wondering… well, is there any chance it could be the same one?”

Gerry stares at him. 

“You’re kidding,” he says. 

“I assure you I’m not.”

There’s a long pause, then Gerry says, “I remember a human child wandering around with a seeing stone. He was—you were in there for years, weren’t you?”

“Decades,” Jon says quietly. “More than that.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Gerry murmurs to himself. “I used to see you sometimes, try to… shape the trees, I guess, help you find a way out. I never knew what happened to you, though—someone else found that stone, and he… he distracted me, to say the least.” He looks at Martin from the corner of his eye, and a trace of a sad smile flickers across his face. 

Jon starts to ask a question, but Martin squeezes his fingers to cut him off. Gerry can tell Jon the story one day, when he’s ready. For now, it stays between them.

After a second, Gerry turns back to Jon and says, “So, can I get it back now?”

“Oh! Of course, sorry,” says Jon. He reaches into his pocket, frowns, and tries the other one. After a minute, he sighs. “It must have fallen out during the fight,” he says apologetically. “But I’m sure it won’t be hard to find—we could go and look for it in the morning?”

Gerry exhales slowly. “No, it’s all right,” he finally says. “Might be better this way. Maybe some other human will find it a few hundred years down the line.” He smiles to himself. “I think that’d be nice. It’s a good thing you don’t have to worry about Sight anymore, though. You’re fae royalty—I’m pretty sure you get it for free.”

Martin goes very still.

He’s been trying not to think about _that_ little detail.

“Yeah, about that,” says Basira. “How does that even work? I mean, Jon’s human. Is he… allowed to be King?”

“I have no idea,” Gerry says brightly. “But we’ll certainly find out, won’t we?”

The thought makes Martin sick to his stomach. He doesn’t want to ask if any of them killed the royal guards they were fighting—if that’s the case, the surviving guards will be out for vengeance. But then again, if they didn’t, then _all_ of the guards will be holding one grudge or another. He’s never lived to see a transfer of power in the Seelie Court, but he knows such things are never pretty.

“You can’t keep the throne,” he says. “It’s too dangerous. Someone will try to take it from you, and—and you’ve already seen how that happens.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes, let’s try to avoid any further attempts on my life.”

“We can figure all this out in the morning,” says Daisy. “Let’s recover from one fight before we start the next, shall we?”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. Martin lifts himself up out of the water. His wounds aren’t fully healed—they probably won’t be for a while yet—but they don’t hurt much anymore, and they probably don’t need to be held under the water any longer. He leans against Jon’s side and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” he says. “We did it.”

“You did it,” Jon corrects.

“I didn’t kill the Queen of Faerie,” Martin reminds him. “So. _We_ did it.”

“And what comes next?” Jon asks softly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Martin muses. “The happily ever after?”

“I certainly hope so.”

Martin tilts his chin up to kiss him. They’re both wet from the river, and Martin’s sure his lips must be freezing cold, but surely Jon can bring some warmth back into him. Kissing him feels like letting out a breath Martin has been holding for far too long. It’s soft and sweet, and for once, it doesn’t carry the subtle weight of a secret. There’s no one lurking in the shadows to punish them. 

They’re free, and it tastes like wonder.

But while there aren’t any malicious faeries hiding between the trees, there is Daisy sitting next to them. She gives a very pointed cough. Martin pulls away from Jon, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says.

“No need,” says Daisy. “But you do have a house, you know. With separate rooms. And privacy.”

Martin huffs out a laugh. “Fine, then,” he says. He holds out his hand to Jon. Jon laces their fingers together with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“Let’s go home,” Martin says softly.

And so they do.


	9. Epilogue

“I’ve got to say, Martin,” Gerry says, surveying the Court as it bustles with activity, “you’ve done a lot of unconventional shit, but this tops it all.”

“Oh, don’t be a killjoy,” Sasha chides him. “I think it’s fun! Not even Eithne got a party when she took the throne. She just started calling meetings and issuing orders from day one.”

“Which you _will_ have to do,” says Tim. “It’s almost the end of summer—this year’s battle with the Unseelie is going to be interesting for sure. They’ll want to see what you’re made of.”

“Can we not talk about that right now?” Jon complains. He does up the top button of his shirt and looks to Martin for approval. Martin stifles a smile—Jon looks completely out of place wearing human clothes paired with his crown of twisted branches, but somehow, he makes it work. Martin reaches out and undoes his top button again. 

“Hey, you don’t make the orders anymore,” says Tim, poking Jon in the shoulder. “ _You_ abdicated.”

“Not yet, he hasn’t,” Martin says primly. “That’s the entire point of all this.”

He wraps his arm around Jon, leaning against him. At first, such public displays of affection would earn them evil eyes from some members of the Court, but over the past few days, people seem to have adjusted. That’s how it goes with faeries. The old Queen is dead, long live the King—and whatever strange new ways he might bring with him.

They’re not going to end up with the King they’re expecting, though.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jon frets, watching a group of sprites whizz by with their arms full of fresh flowers. Basira is helping arrange some of them around the throne, when she’s not busy tucking them into Daisy’s hair. “What if they don’t take to it well?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Martin asks. “No offense, but I think they’ll be pleased.” Gerry’s not popular, per se, but at least he’s a faerie. To most people, he’ll seem like a much better option than Jon. 

It was Martin who suggested this entire thing. It was clear from the beginning that Jon couldn’t keep the throne—it would be too dangerous, and quite frankly, they’re both ready to leave. They’ve put in too much work to escape to consider staying. But that had raised the question of who Jon’s replacement would be. Martin had briefly considered Sasha, but as much as he loves his faerie friends, they’re too accustomed to the old ways. If he leaves the Court behind, he wants to be sure that it’s a kinder one, that allows for new ways of thinking and feeling. 

Gerry was the obvious choice. He understands what the Court needs, and besides, he’s older than Martin, more experienced, and a hell of a lot more intimidating. People will respect him. 

All that’s left to do is the actual transferral of power.

“I’ve read the records,” Jon says, fiddling anxiously with the cuffs of his sleeves. “There’s never been a peaceful abdication, Martin, it’s always involved some form of murder or another. How do we know they’ll accept Gerry’s rule as legitimate?”

“If they don’t like it, they’ll have to take it up with me,” Gerry says. “Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself.”

Martin doesn’t doubt that. He’s just about to say so when he spies two women lingering by the edge of the Court, where a great table of food is being set up. One is a dryad, the other a water spirit. “Cedar and dog-rose, they made it!” says Martin, delighted. He waves his arms. 

Georgie spots him first. Her face lights up, and she tugs Melanie across the Court to meet him. “Martin!” she says. “It’s so good to see you alive!” She throws her arms around him. Martin hugs her back.

“It’s good to see you too!” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“‘Course we did,” Melanie says, grinning. She’s wearing a flowy blue blouse and earrings that seem to be made from bottle-caps fished out of a river. “I’ve never been in a Court before, so I couldn’t resist coming to a coronation. Plus, Annabelle wanted us to send her thanks. She’s heading back home to Briar Hollow now.” She laughs. “She would’ve come herself, but she thought it might not look good for a new King to welcome an Unseelie into the Court on his very first day.”

“Probably smart,” Martin admits.

“And there’s one more reason we had to come,” Georgie says playfully. “We had to meet Jon! Where is he?”

Martin takes Jon’s hand. “Jon, this is Georgie and Melanie,” he introduces. “They helped me out with the first task.”

Basira has wandered over sometime when Martin wasn’t paying attention. “Did they now?” she asks with a smile. “And here I was thinking me and Daisy were the only friends you made.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” says Jon.

Georgie eyes him critically. “I like him,” she decides. “He’s pretty. You have good taste, Martin.”

As Jon is stammering his way through a thank-you, Daisy comes over to join them. “Things are almost set up,” she says. “Are you ready?”

Jon looks to Gerry. Gerry nods. Jon takes a deep breath and says, “I’m ready.”

“Come on, then,” Martin says quietly. “Let’s finish it.” 

He squeezes Jon’s fingers, and together, they walk up to the base of the throne. A hush falls over the Court. Martin steps to the side, leaving Jon alone to address them.

Jon clears his throat. “Hello,” he says. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I organized for a celebration today.” There are some nods in the crowd, and a few whispers. “And I’m sure you’re… curious as to what it will be like to have a human as your King.” More nods. 

“Wait, _he’s_ the new King?” Melanie whispers to Martin. “You didn’t say that on the invitation!” Martin shushes her. 

“Well, I have an answer to that question,” Jon goes on. “And the answer is… you won’t be having a human as your King. I’m stepping down.” The faeries all gasp in unison.

“Then who will rule?” someone cries out. Everyone else seems to take this as permission to speak, and the Court explodes with hundreds of voices. Jon looks briefly panicked, then he takes another breath and holds up his hand. Slowly, the voices die off—people don’t obey as quickly as they would have for Eithne, but they do obey.

“It’s not right for me to stay and rule,” Jon says firmly. “I might have learned your ways, but I haven’t lived them. And for that reason, I’ve chosen a successor.” He lifts the crown of branches from his forehead. 

“That’s my cue,” Gerry mutters. Martin squeezes his shoulder. He walks up to Jon and kneels before him.

Jon places the crown on his head. Gerry stands up and faces the Court, staring out at the faces of the Seelie, as if daring any of them to challenge him. The crown suits him. The front of it comes to a point directly between his strong brows, somehow making his skin appear paler and eyes darker. 

“Let the Court recognize King Gerard of the Seelie Fae,” Jon says, loud and clear. 

The silence rings.

This time, Martin is the first to clap.

Beside him, Basira follows his lead. Daisy, Tim and Sasha join in, and before he knows it, the sound sweeps through the Court, pixies and elves alike cheering for their new leader. A smile curls at the corner of Gerry’s mouth. Jon just looks relieved. He hurries back to Martin’s side. Martin leans up on his tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“It’s really over now,” he says giddily. “Where should we go? Lunaris? Or deeper into Faerie, maybe, in the unclaimed territories?”

“There are some very nice places in the wildlands,” Georgie suggests.

“Oh no,” Daisy says, pointing at Jon in warning, “You two aren’t leaving. You have to show me and Basira around Lunaris.”

“About that,” Gerry says casually, coming to lean in between Martin and the others. “I was thinking—we really don’t have many faeries keeping track of all the bullshit that goes on around here, do we?”

“So… what are you saying?” Jon asks slowly. 

“I could make your position as Archivist official,” says Gerry. “Give you actual duties. What do you think?”

Jon pauses.

“No pressure, though,” Gerry says, holding up his hands. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I’d just been through all the same shit as you, I’d want to walk away too.”

“No, I think I want to,” Jon says thoughtfully. “It’s just… different, now. I’m not really looking for answers for myself anymore, but it might be nice to help find some for other people.”

“Exactly,” Gerry says, grinning. “We’ll need _someone_ to record this whole abdication business. I mean, it’s a historic event. So what do you say? Want to help build the future of Faerie?”

Jon smiles. “Well, when you put it that way, how could I refuse?”

Somewhere off to the side, a faerie leaps up onto a tall root and raises her pennywhistle. She blows into it, striking up a bright melody that catches like a flame. Martin’s never known a faerie to refuse a dance, and sure enough, a group quickly forms in the middle of the clearing, holding hands and prancing about to the music. Gerry gives them a little salute, then spreads his wings and soars into place on the throne. He settles in, looking down at the crowd with satisfaction, and Martin smiles so wide it makes his cheeks hurt.

“Don’t worry, we aren’t going anywhere,” Jon says to Daisy. “At least, not until we’ve had a proper celebration. There’s still a party going on, after all.” 

He turns to Martin and holds out his hand. “Dance with me?” he asks.

“Always,” says Martin. He takes Jon’s hand and pulls him out into the middle of the clearing, a skip in his step. “So, sir Archivist,” he says, twirling Jon around. “Since you’re about to hold an official title, I’m curious—what have you learned from your studies? What do you know of the fae?” 

Jon smiles and steps in time with Martin. “That they’re good dancers,” he says. 

“Is that all?”

“Oh, certainly not. They’re also kind, and caring, and more devoted than anyone I’ve ever met.” Jon catches Martin’s cheek as they turn, gently directing him to look into his eyes. Martin’s face grows hot.

“Faeries aren’t as nice as they sound, honestly,” he says. “I mean, they did just try to kill us both.”

“Maybe that can change,” Jon says softly. “Look around.”

Martin pauses to take stock of their surroundings. The tension of the past few days has melted away. A faerie with a set of panpipes joins the girl with the pennywhistle, and their music lights up the Court. It feels like the sun shines brighter, dazzling with the joy of hard times overcome. Jon and Martin are surrounded by fae, and no one gives them a second glance. Basira is trading spins with Melanie. Tim appears to be showing Daisy the steps to a traditional fae dance—about three times faster than they’re meant to be performed, mind you, and to a completely different song. 

Martin laughs. Last spring, he wouldn’t have believed this possible. “Wouldn’t that be the most magical thing?” he asks dreamily. “If faeries could change their ways, just because of us?”

“I think love changes everyone,” Jon says with a smile. 

Looking around, Martin has to agree. The Court is nothing short of transformed. He pulls Jon in for a kiss, and prays that whatever good fortune brought them here will stay. 

He gets the feeling that it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it :'DD 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed the story! i've had a great time posting it over the past few weeks and bringing you all along for the ride. your comments feed my soul so feel free to leave one and make my day, but otherwise, thank you so much for reading! <3
> 
> (if you want to keep up with me/see me shitpost about my next fic ideas, i'm on [tumblr](https://spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/spiralsandeyes)!)


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